Duality of Being
by Sakura Katana
Summary: Even our greatest heroes have monsters within. Watch out, or you'll eat yourself alive. Spoilers through the end of 'Fugitives.' ON HIATUS INDEFINITELY.
1. The First Night

**A.N. **After the _Fugitives _finale I got thinking about the fates of Nathan and Sylar. I haven't decided which pairings I'm going to use in this, so if you find a pairing between the lines (Of course at least one person will. We're fan fic writers; that's how we roll!) I did not put it there on purpose. For this chapter at least. Also, the whole Natelar thing won't be the _entire _story. There will be other complications which I'm super excited about, so I'll try to update regularly!

**Disclaimer: **Don't own Heroes. If you could hook me up with some way of owning Heroes, please tell me. I also do not own the quote at the beginning. It is from _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde _by Robert Louis Stevenson. Quotes from this book (which is awesome and totally relates to the situation here) will replace Mohinder's Monologue at the beginning of every chapter. Sort of.

Chapter 1: The First Night

_"With every day, and from both sides of my intelligence, the moral and the intellectual, I thus drew steadily nearer to the truth, by whose partial discovery I have been doomed to such a dreadful shipwreck: that man is not truly one, but truly two." __  
_

Petrelli Mansion

Angela Petrelli, sitting in bed with one of her many photo albums, answered the phone on her bedside table. "Hello?"

"Angela."

"Hello, Noah. Have you found the Haitian yet?" Angela couldn't help but smile when her most useful agent was on the other line. He trod the line between work and family so carefully that it was admirable. She was lucky to have him with her as joint head of management for the new Company.

"No, but I have a few leads. That isn't why I'm calling, and you know it."

Yes, she knew the real reason. She, Noah, and Matt Parkman were the only people on the planet who knew _of _the real reason. "Claire's in California, Noah. She does have classes to go to, credits to earn."

"I know. How's Nathan been lately?

"He's been fine, but we haven't talked all that much lately. He's very busy in Washington." That was the truth. He - she couldn't bring herself to really think of _him _as Nathan - _was _busy. Hopefully, he would get busier all the time. Hopefully, it was easier to feel like Nathan when caught up in politics and paperwork.

"Anything else?"

Angela paused, then answered: "Yes. I wasn't going to tell you, but you and I are the only ones really monitoring this situation. On Wednesday, I went out to lunch with... Nathan, but before we left he said that he hadn't been feeling like himself lately. I responded with what I would have said to Nathan before all this, but he just stared off into space-"

"Maybe you're overreacting. Congress has a lot of issues to work on right now; he's probably just stressed out." Noah's reassuring tone held a hint of anxiety.

"No, it's more than that. When I asked him if he was listening to me, he started walking toward the cabinet on the other side of the room. He apologized and opened the cabinet. He said the clock in it had been distracting him because it was _a minute and a half fast_. He adjusted the hands, and acted like nothing unusual had happened."

"What? No. You're serious?" Now it was the anxiety that held a hint of disbelief.

"Would I make up a story like this, Noah?"

"It's been six weeks! We worried about this happening _years _down the line! What did Parkman do wrong?" Noah shouted the same thoughts Angela had thought on Wednesday at the Italian restaurant she and her suddenly clock-savvy "son" had decided to eat at.

"I don't know."

"_What? _No dreams, nothing?"

"I didn't say I was completely blank. What do you think I've been thinking about these past three days? Dreaming is another matter entirely."

"Fine. So what are your theories?"

"We have to remember that, as far as we know, we are the first people to attempt to completely change someone's personality through telepathy, clairsentience, and shape-shifting. We may need Mr. Parkman to come and touch up in some places. If that's not enough, we bring in the Haitian to wipe any memories that won't stay suppressed. It's not entirely for sentimental reasons that you need to find your old partner, you know."

"I know. Angela, he has Claire's ability. When Peter had it, he was able to recover all of his memories at once."

"Peter had Adam's help, and he _knew _that he had that ability. Besides, erasing memories of Sylar may not be necessary. As long as he thinks he's Nathan, things should be fine. In which case we need Matt Parkman, not the Haitian. I'm listing _all _of our options, not just the most likely ones. And you may have been right before: maybe we _are _overreacting. It could just be the overwork, or a phase. In which case, we have nothing to worry about."

"Are you convincing me, or yourself?"

Angela sighed, gazing down at a picture of Arthur and Charles when they took Kaito to his first baseball game in the United States. To think that those days were so long past... Everyone in the photograph was dead now, even the man behind the camera: Bob Bishop. "I hope I don't have to do any convincing. I hope it was a one-time lapse. Don't worry, Noah. I'll keep an eye on him. Good night."

"I'll hold you to that. Good night."

Washington, D.C.

_Blood oozes out from the wounds of the lukewarm corpse as he moves it away from the intercom. He can hear his prey talking in the hallway. Noah and Angela have a plan, of course. Meredith is a wild card; he knows little about her except what her power is and who her daughter is. Claire is acting brave. Is it courage or bravado? He'll find out soon._

_Angela -not _Mom_, most likely- hardly changes her expression as the building goes into lock down. Let the games begin._

"_Arthur Petrelli is dead. No need to go to Pinehearst now," he says into the intercom._

_Claire, predictably, is the first to respond. "Sylar?"_

_"Don't worry, Claire. Peter couldn't do it, so I did. Just like Mommy wanted." That disgust on her face, he's sure now that Angela isn't his mother. He continues, "I know I repulse you. Terrify you. You see me as a monster. And yet, you did this to me. And before the night is over, I'm going to prove to you, one by one, that you're all monsters. Exactly like me."_

_A click, and off with the intercom. He chuckles to himself. "This is going to be fun."_

Senator Nathan Petrelli awoke in a cold sweat. He caught his breath and looked over at his digital alarm clock. Three AM, but after that nightmare there was no fatigue in his system. His eyes were wide and his heart was beating with more exhilaration that fear. That in itself was disturbing, and the dream...the dream was something else entirely.

Knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep any more, Nathan switched off his alarm and pulled on some jeans and a T shirt that he had selected hastily from his dresser drawer. He switched on all the lights in the apartment. Screw the energy crisis; the dark brought back the image of that room full of carnage and cold machinery. The worst part was that he _knew _where that was and he _knew _what had happened there, but in reality he hadn't been there. Noah and Angela had told him about it. The disasters and Primatech and Pinehearst had helped win the President to his cause all those months ago.

Nathan was reminded of when Peter used to have nightmares as a little kid. _"But it was all so real!" _he'd say. Nathan would tell him to stop being such a baby; it _wasn't _real and Dad would think he was a wimp if he said anything about it to him. That brought back part of the dream all over again. He had been so sure that Angela Petrelli was not his mother, which was connected with knowing that Arthur Petrelli was not his father. But why, _why_ would he think that? Of course, the answer was in the only thing Claire said to him from that cement hallway: _"Sylar?"_

Sylar was dead; he knew that with a conviction. _That life is over. Sylar's dead. That life is over. Sylar is dead. _Somehow those words sprang up into the back of his mind, though he knew with yet another conviction that they were not his. They were automatically followed by: _You are Nathan Petrelli. Son. Brother. Father. Senator. Nathan Petrelli._

_I know that's who I am, _Nathan thought in confusion. He hadn't even been thinking about himself; he had been thinking about the dream. Why had who he was come into the picture? That feeling he'd had in the dream was the answer. How could that have come from his subconscious? All dreams came from the dreamers subconscious; he knew that much about science.

But that _thrill_... that thrill of the hunt... he couldn't have imagined that in his wildest dreams, and this one definitely qualified. So what should he do about this? His mother and Peter probably wouldn't react well. They'd dealt with prophetic nightmares; he'd sound pathetic in comparison. No, the best thing was the see if any more disturbing dreams came up, and if they did he could get counseling. Preferably somewhere the press wouldn't find him. With that resolution, Nathan turned on his laptop to check his email; it would help pass the time until morning.

_You can't hide forever_, said a voice even deeper down than those earlier thoughts that hadn't belonged to him. Those earlier thoughts that had been full of gaps somehow, gaps that some other part of him knew held the answers to everything in his dream. Nathan Petrelli knew that this second voice, like that thrill from the dream, came from his very soul.

Unfortunately, _that _was the conviction that no amount of email could get rid of.

**A.N. **Okay, so that was sort of an intro-type chapter. The next one should be a bit longer, and hopefully will be up soon. **Please review! **Compliments, suggestions, constructive criticism, and thoughts in general are totally appreciated!


	2. Questions

**A.N. **I'm back with the second chapter! Whoever is the first to find my Spock reference wins a gold star and double Brownie points.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own anything. This chapter's quote is from _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde _again.

Chapter 2: Questions

_"You start a question, and it's like starting a stone. You sit quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others; and presently some bland old bird (the last you would have thought of) is knocked on the head in his own back garden and the family have to change their name. No, sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks like Queer Street, the less I ask."_

Costa Verde, California

"You going to finish those?" asked Claire Bennet, pointing at her uncle's french fries. His visit had been a great surprise in an otherwise boring week.

Peter shook his head and pushed the fries over to her side of the table. "So, how's college?"

Claire shrugged. "It's okay. I'm transferring to UCLA next semester, if I get accepted. My classes are pretty easy right now, though, so I think I will."

"UCLA, nice. You know what's better than college?"

"What?"

"Nursing school," said Peter. Claire laughed, and he faked offense. "What? I'm serious!"

"Yeah, whatever," Claire said. "Didn't your whole family make fun of you?"

"Hey, I said the _school_ was good, not the reactions to it." Peter stole one of his fries back. "Are you thinking of what you want to do after you graduate?"

Claire sighed. "I don't know. It's hard to think about the future when you know you'll live forever." For all she knew, she would have the body of a sixteen-year-old forever. It was the dream at least half the women in America. To Claire, it was seeming more and more like a nightmare. From being hunted by agents from what seemed like every possible secret organization to Sylar's terrifying but all-too-logical proposal, immortality had yet to show any real perks.

"Makes sense." There was a brief silence, then: "How's Noah doing? I know my mom's pretty busy setting up for the new Company."

"I don't know where he is, but he's looking for the Haitian."

"That's probably a good idea. What's the Company without abductions and memory wipes?"

Claire was slightly surprised at the bitter and sarcastic edge in Peter's voice. "They said things were going to be different, and I think-"

"I _know_ what you think, Claire. They said they would change. So far it seems like they have, it's just..."

"What?" Claire prompted. She felt a little uncomfortable knowing Peter was so doubtful about Noah and Angela. It wasn't that she hadn't had her own doubts about their redemption, but Peter was supposed to be the empath. He used to be the dreamer, the optimist. He'd had his ups and downs in the past, but now Peter barely wanted to talk to his own mother and brother. Peter's unconditional love was what Claire had tried to feel to forgive both her adoptive and biological father for what happened with Building 26. Didn't Peter know that the others- especially since he had defeated Sylar- looked to him as a leader?

"I feel like they're hiding something." Peter stared at the table, as if he was ashamed of his confession.

"What would they be hiding?"

"I don't know!" The people at the next table were looking at Peter and Claire strangely. He lowered his voice and continued, "That's the problem, _I don't know_. I guess if I could stand to be around them more, I might find out. But every time our whole family's together I can't help but think of how Nathan betrayed us and how my parents lied to us our entire lives. I know I should get over it, but...I can't. I can't this time."

"Yes, you _can,_" insisted Claire. This was _not _how Peter Petrelli was supposed to feel; this was not how he was supposed to talk or act. "Look, my dad lied to me too, but if all that stuff hadn't happened to us, we would have never met Matt Parkman or Hiro Nakamura, or each other. I know it's hard to think of it this way, but we wouldn't be who we are."

A humorless laugh was not the response Claire had wanted. Peter looked up from the table and met her eyes once again. "See, that's the thing. I'm a shape-shifter now, Claire. When I can be anyone I want, why should I be Peter Petrelli?"

Arlington, Virginia

Nervously, Nathan Petrelli approached the secretary's desk at the Arlington Counseling Center. The blond young women behind the desk looked up from her game of Solitaire, and asked, "How can I help you?"

"I have an appointment with Dr. Moreno."

"Her office is second floor, room number nine. I'll let her know you're here."

"Thank you," Nathan said. As he entered the elevator, he wondered why the secretary had been looking at him strangely. Then he remembered his run in with a bird during landing, and quickly brushed a feather from his shoulder. That could have been a little hard to explain.

Dr. Moreno was waiting for him in a swivel chair when he reached the office. Nathan noted that her chair and her skirt were the same shade of navy blue. She stood to greet him as he entered the room. "Hi, I'm Dr. Isabel Moreno," she said, shaking his hand. "I'm guessing you're Senator Nathan Petrelli?"

"Yes. You have no idea how much it means to me that you agreed to keep this entirely confidential. If certain people found out I was getting counseling... well, it wouldn't be pretty." He had run over multiple versions of an interrogation by his mother on the flight to Arlington. And then there were political enemies to worry about...

"It's no trouble at all, just policy. I wouldn't change anything just because you're a little more well known than my other patients. Please, sit down." She gestured to the light blue couch across from her chair. When she had sat down herself, she picked up a pen and a yellow Legal pad. "You said you wanted counseling because of some disturbing dreams you've been having lately. Could you describe them?"

"It started last week. I've only had three, but-" _Stop trying to explain yourself, just tell her_, Nathan thought. He took a deep breath and started at the beginning. "The first one wasn't that bad, compared to the others. I was in a paper factory-"

"A paper factory?"

"Yeah, my parents were, ah, founders of this company. So I'd been there before, but not like this. In the dream, I was watching my mother, daughter, ex-girlfriend, and daughter's adoptive father from the security camera monitors." He was impressed that Dr. Moreno hadn't asked him to repeat the list of relations. "I was talking to them over the intercom, and my mother... for some reason I knew she wasn't my mother. And the room- the room I was in was full of corpses." Nathan looked up at the counselor, but she seemed unfazed so far. Of course she did- it was her job to talk to people who had some issues, or who were just plain crazy.

_I'm not crazy_. _There has to be a better explanation for all this._

"And the other dreams?" said Dr. Moreno. She really was a beautiful woman, Nathan thought. Her sleek black hair and flawless skin the color of his morning latte were worthy of a model or actress. Not that he should be noticing those things, or think about them ever again. He had enough complications with women as it was.

"In the second one, it was the middle of the night and I was walking into a garage. There was a woman-a mechanic- working on something. She said something like, 'I didn't hear your footsteps.' I said, 'That's because there weren't any.' She acted like she was listening for something, and then she said, 'That sound, in your heart- what is it?' I said, 'Murder.' And I- I killed her."

Saying it out loud brought back the confidence, and that same thrill he had felt when he had dreamed of locking down Angela, Claire, Noah, and Meredith. He couldn't dwell on it; he didn't want to think about how strong he felt during the hunt, how invincible. "The third dream I had just last night. It- I don't know how to explain why I had it."

"All of these dreams so far are pretty hard to explain. That's why you wanted counseling, remember?" said Dr. Moreno kindly. "Just tell me what happened, and then we'll talk about what it might mean."

"I was in a dark room with metal walls. At the end of the room there was a woman, who I've never met, but in the dream we had some... unusual history. She was chained to the ground and there were sparks coming out of her body, like she couldn't control them." Nathan realized he probably shouldn't have mentioned the sparks, but since these dreams were not real- _could not be real_- he probably did no harm by mentioning them.

He continued, "When she saw me, she said, 'I will kill you, you son of a bitch. You murdered by father!' I wasn't sure what was going to happen, so I just said, 'Yes, I did.' And that was the truth. She started straining at the chains, and screamed, 'How could you do that to me?' And I-I felt... I said, 'I'm not going to insult you by saying I'm sorry. You deserve so much more than that, Elle; you deserve vengeance. I'll take whatever you've got.' And she- she shot lighting at me. Then I woke up," he finished rather lamely.

Dr. Moreno stared at her Legal pad for a moment, then said, "You're certain you haven't actually witnessed any of these things?"

"No," said Nathan. He wanted to add, _I'm not a killer. I'm not... him._

_So you say._

_There is no 'you.' There's just me. I am-_

"Mr. Petrelli?"

"Sorry?"

"Let's start with the first dream. What were you saying to your, um, family over the intercom?"

"I was threatening them."

"Threatening them?"

"Yeah, I was talking about how I disgusted and terrified them. I remember I said... I said 'Before the night is over, I'm going to prove to you, one by one, that you're all monsters. Exactly like me.' Doctor, I wouldn't _do _these things. Who I am in these dreams is not- it's not Nathan Petrelli." _It's not me. It. Is. Not. Me._

"I'm glad you say so. Otherwise, we'd have a whole other set of problems," said Dr. Moreno. "Could you give me the names of the people in the first dream?"

"There was Angela, my mom; Claire, my daughter; Noah, her adoptive father; and Meredith, Claire's mother."

"You have an interesting family, Mr. Petrelli."

Nathan smiled. His muscles felt unused to that action after the past week. "Believe me, I know."

"What are your feelings toward your family? Let's start with your mother."

"I love her. She's my mom. She's always very supportive...but sometimes I think it's more for her good than mine. The last time I had lunch with her, I felt like she was a little... _wary_ of me. I've- I've been avoiding her since then." If he didn't see Angela, he wouldn't doubt she was his mother. He wouldn't think she was hiding things from him. He was the new Company's public face to the president; how could she hide things from him?

"I see. And Claire, your daughter?"

"Claire is- she's a very strong young woman. When I was... going through a hard time a little while ago, she really helped me realize what I was supposed to do. Since this is confidential, I guess I can tell you she's illegitimate, technically. I didn't meet her until she was already in high-school. Now she's closer to me than my two sons that the press actually knows about."

Dr. Moreno nodded. "That's good that you have a strong relationship with your daughter. Good for both you and her. There's a lack of real father figures in our culture these days."

Nathan couldn't help but chuckle a little at that. The last thing he felt like was 'real father figure.' "I may be her biological father, but Noah's the one she really looks up to. He's one of a kind. I don't know what I'd do without him. In certain things, at least." Now that the Building 26 fiasco was over, Nathan could clearly see how lost he would have been in that organization without Noah Bennet.

"That covers him, then. And Meredith? You said she was your ex-girlfriend," said Dr. Moreno. She looked like she was pleased to have scored an interesting patient. Nathan couldn't blame her. She was probably sick of eating disorders and low self esteem.

"Meredith is..." Nathan began, but he couldn't finish. He couldn't remember a single thing about Meredith Gordon. The only thing that came to his mind when he completely racked it was some floating detail about the effects of adrenaline. That made no sense whatsoever. Meredith was Claire's mother, for God's sake.

"Mr. Petrelli-"

"I know, I know. This isn't what either of us wants to hear, but I can't remember anything about Meredith."

"You can't remember anything?"

"Besides that she's dead, nothing." Nathan could see Dr. Moreno's opinion of him sinking. "I _remember_ remembering, but I don't actually know anything about her. Does that make sense?"

"Not entirely. But we can continue this on Thursday."

"Oh, right." Nathan glanced at his watch. The session had already ended. "I'll be going now. Thanks for making time for me, Dr. Moreno."

"No, thank _you_ for deciding to talk about this. We need our Congress healthy in body and mind, especially at a time like this."

"That's twice you've said something like that. You're really that pessimistic about the here and now?"

Dr. Moreno smiled. "I guess I'll have to watch what I say; I'm dealing with a politician now."

"I'll try not to read too much into that. I'll see you Thursday."

That night, when Elle Bishop's screams of '_Murderer!' _once again haunted his dreams, it seemed that Thursday couldn't come soon enough.

**A.N. **I'm not really as confident about this chapter as I was about the first one, so please tell me what you think. **Review!**


	3. Mirror Images

**A.N. **Chapter 3! This took a bit longer than usual. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, and alerted so far. Nobody caught my Spock reference, sadness. So I put in another one! I know somebody will find it this time. :)

This chapter takes place 8 weeks after _Invisible Thread_, which is a week after the last chapter, FYI. That's all the spoilers I shall give. You must now read for yourself, because this Author's Note is feeling pretty long.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything whatsoever. This chapter's quote is from _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde _yet again, but it has more to do with Noah than with Nathan. I just read this and I thought of HRG's view of the situation.

Chapter 3: Mirror Images

_"I swear to God I will never set eyes on him again. I bind my honour to you that I am done with him in this world. It is all at an end. And indeed he does not want my help; you do not know him as I do; he is safe, he is quite safe; mark my words, he will never more be heard of."_

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

Despite a month and a half of tracking, it was the Haitian who found Noah Bennet, and not the other way around. Noah had finally followed the nearly nonexistent clues that led to Haiti. He was barely off the plane and into the capital of the island nation, in search of directions to the Haitian's village, when he spotted his former partner sitting alone at a street-side cafe, waiting.

Noah's momentary surprise gave way to caution. Normally he could trust the Haitian, but these were not normal circumstances. He took the unoccupied seat at the cafe table.

"So you know I've been looking for you," Noah began guardedly.

As per usual, a nod was his only reply.

"Angela Petrelli and I are heading a new Company, and we want you on board. Things won't be up and running for a while, but-"

"You speak like I am already part of your Company," interrupted the Haitian quietly.

Noah didn't like how this sounded; it was certainly an unexpected response from one of the most loyal agents he'd ever met. He adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses slightly, and said carefully, "What are you suggesting?"

"I am not suggesting anything. I am _telling _you that I am no longer an agent," said the Haitian. If Noah Bennet had cared to look into the eyes of the man sitting across from him, he would have seen the exhaustion they revealed.

"I always trusted you and Angela Petrelli's motives," continued the Haitian. "Now I believe you have gone beyond what is necessary."

"If you're talking about Building 26, I worked for them as a double agent. I did everything I could to help-"

Again, the Haitian interrupted. "I do not disagree with that. My concern is with what you have done to Nathan Petrelli."

For almost a minute, Noah was at a loss for words. "Who told you?"

"Some former agents, including myself, met while we were hunted. We agreed not to interfere with the situation, but we thought it wise to keep a close watch on you and Angela." The Haitian lowered his voice. "It is one thing to erase a man's memories. It is another to try to erase a man's soul."

Noah kept his voice equally low, but anger was clear in his voice. "Are you seriously talking to me about Sylar's _soul_?"

"Not only that, but by your actions you have destroyed the memory of Nathan Petrelli."

"If the government knew someone with an ability had killed Nathan, your kind would have been rounded up again right then and there!"

"You could have found another way. Claire's blood-"

"It was too late for that!"

"Do you expect anyone to believe that you and Angela could not have come up with another plan? You both wanted a way to defeat Sylar, and Angela wanted to keep her son. Your plan was based on greed, not the greater good."

"You have _no idea_-"

"You do not know my life, Noah Bennet. Since I was boy, I have tried to serve the greater good. I believed I was using my gift the way God wanted me to. Now I am not sure if I ever was. There are problems in Haiti that have been ignored for too long, and I have taken it as my duty to make things right," said the Haitian. His expression still held degrees of both sadness and fatigue. "We have already spoken too long, but let me say this: What you have done to both Nathan Petrelli and Sylar will haunt you for the rest of your life. If you wish to justify your actions, prove to me- and to your family- that there is still something that separates you from those you try to stop."

In an action that rang with finality, the Haitian rose from his seat and joined the crowed of locals and tourists that filled Port-au-Prince's main commercial center. With about twenty years of experience as an agent, Noah could have followed. He did not rise from his chair.

Manhattan, New York City, New York

Peter Petrelli had never been in a school play, a church pageant, or a drama club. He had never enjoyed playing dress up as a kid (preferring to tag along with whatever Nathan happened to be doing), and had never been interested in doing impressions.

Now, at age twenty seven, Peter had opted to buy a full-length mirror and spend his entire Saturday in front of it, practicing at being other people. The appropriate articles of clothing and props were on the table behind him: a suit jacket and two different ties; a black, button-down shirt; a pair of horn-rimmed glasses; and a copy of _Activating Evolution_.

The President of the United States gave a few lines from a speech, then gave up. Apparently he was not really the speech-making type.

The Indian geneticist took up a copy of his father's book and a friendly smile. "Hello, my name is Doctor Mohinder Suresh. I would like to speak to you about-"

His cell phone rang, interrupting him. He answered it without thinking. "Hello?"

"Um, Dr. Suresh? Is Peter there?" asked a confused Claire.

Peter could have kicked himself, but he was too busy shape-shifting. "Sorry, Claire. I was-"

"Hanging out with Mohinder?"

That would have been much less awkward, but no. "I was practicing my power."

"Oh. Never mind then, I'll just-"

"No, don't hang up," Peter insisted. "What did you call about?"

Claire paused, as if unsure how to continue. "Do you think your brother's been acting a little... different?"

"I haven't spoken to him lately. Do you think something's wrong?"

"I don't know. It's just that I was supposed to see him on Thursday, but he called and said it would have to be Saturday. I said that was fine, but when I saw him... he looked a lot worse than fine."

"How exactly was he 'worse than fine?'"

"Well, his eyes were all bloodshot, like he hadn't slept in a week. He looked sort of pale too. Peter, I think maybe you should call him-"

"I'm sure it's just his work, Claire. You can ask him the next time you see him if you want," Peter said. He really just wanted to get off the phone, or at least stop talking about his brother.

Claire seemed to hear that in his tone. "Fine," she said, sounding annoyed. "Have fun with your _practice_."

Peter tossed his phone on the table, now equally annoyed. "Yeah, I will."

Nathan's square-jawed face lifted to meet his gaze from across the mirror. "You gotta take it easy on her, Pete. She's not eighteen yet."

"You wouldn't know what she's talking about, would you? _I _think you look okay," replied Peter.

"Of course I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be? I only betrayed my family- no, my entire _species_- and don't have to take any blame because I said I was _sorry. _People only _died _because of me," said Nathan with a nonchalant shrug.

"Yeah, and how could that _possibly _affect your relationships with any of them- sorry- _us,_ right?" added Peter sarcastically.

"Come on, Pete. You're my brother; I love you."

"I love you too, Nathan," said Peter. He pushed his head against the mirror, fighting the sudden urge to punch it. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to just forget all of this. That doesn't mean that I'm going to let you walk all over me again. I am so _sick _of this family lying and manipulating. Mom says she's changed, but that's really hard to buy. And you... what would you know? Have you seen yourself lately? You're like a puppet. All you do is sit there at Congress and be careful not to make anybody mad, so you can push Mom's agenda to the President."

"I'm just trying to do what's right. I'm trying to fix things."

"There wouldn't be anything to fix if you hadn't broken it in the first place!"

Peter backed away from the mirror, breathing hard. What was _that? _Sure, he had a right to vent, but that had been different. That was... that was something he didn't want to think about.

He carefully turned the mirror around to face the wall. _It won't happen again_, he promised himself.

Washington, D.C.

Therapy really was not helping, Nathan had to admit. If anything, it was making things worse. He had only had two meetings with Doctor Moreno so far, but ever since the first one he had dreamed every night.

And every night he had dreamed of Elle Bishop.

It was like his brain was trying to tell him that there was something important about her, but he couldn't figure it out. Thursday therapy sessions weren't telling him what he needed to know, which made sense considering he had never met the girl in his life. If his dreams were to be believed, he had done a lot more than just meet her. He had done things he wasn't sure he even wanted to consider. It was keeping him up at night, ruining his concentration on work, and wrecking his appetite.

Dr. Moreno had said that people can have some level of control over their dreams. If he just focused hard enough on what he wanted to dream about or what answers he wanted, she had told him, then his subconscious would respond. As he turned off his bedside lamp, all Nathan could think was, _Just not Elle, okay? I'll take anyone else, just please leave me alone about Elle for one night._

He stayed awake, plagued by insomnia, worries, and memories of nights past, for about an hour. Finally, sleep ceased to evade him.

_She didn't have a prayer against him._

_He had noted all entrances and exits when he had entered the house. He was rusty, but not _that _rusty. If he had still been in possession of super-hearing, he would have enjoyed listening to her heart rate escalate as he slammed the front door, closed the blinds, and broke the light-bulbs. Telekinesis he still very much had possession of._

_She tried yet another door (Why did a house need that many doors? There were three on the ground floor, not to mention the giant windows everywhere.) and he easily blocked it with a nearby table. From the top of the stairs he watched her grab a phone, only to find that the line was severed. There was really no need for interruptions like that. This was a private party._

_When she started brandishing that kitchen knife he almost laughed. Who was she supposed to be; Boo Radley? He silently began to descend the stairs as she checked the office, then backed out again. She walked as quietly as she could into the living room, and he crept up behind her. He really had forgotten how great this felt._

_Apparently he had also forgotten how to truly keep silent, because before he could stop her she ran into the office. A quick shake assured him that his prey had padlocked the door. Though he wasn't planning on smashing in the door, he rattled it around a little just to make her more afraid. When he peered through the blinds he could barely make out her huddled form._

_"I know you're scared," he began softly, almost sympathetically. It was more fun when he got to talk to them. "I would be too; all alone in this house with someone like me." He smirked, but kept the same tone. "A man you barely know."_

_Oh, her breathing was definitely more panicked now. He began to roam through the kitchen. The files he wanted were probably in the office, but... _Dad's Office_. A cardboard box in the middle of the kitchen. How convenient. "Isn't exactly a fair fight, I admit. But I don't want to fight you, Claire. I just want what you have. You see, I lost everything that made me special."_

_As he continued his speech, he flipped through the folder labeled _Level 5_. Knox Washington's power looked particularly appealing... "Lost, but now found. There's a whole shopping list of abilities right here. But I'm gonna start with the best, and once I have yours-"_

_With a yell, his would-be victim plunged the knife directly into his chest. He staggered, but was distracted only momentarily. The possibility of her getting away was much more pressing. How had she been able to ambush him in the first place?_

_He pinned her against the wall. He advanced jerkily, flipping her around to face him with much more effort than it should have taken. He raised a finger and it was business as usual._

_Well, it wasn't entirely business as usual. Usually his breathing wasn't so staggered as he searched his victim's brain. Usually the victim wasn't conscious, either._

_"What are you doing to me?" Claire asked numbly._

_"Looking for answers before I bleed to death."_

_"Funny. I'm looking for answers too."_

Wonderful. Bonding, _Sylar thought. _

_Claire had more questions. "Why don't I feel anything?"_

_He inspected the organ in front of him. "No nerve endings. An amazing bit of machinery it is," he said, locating the correct portion of her brain. "And how much of it do we actually use? Ten percent, maybe twenty? Imagine the answers we'd have with a hundred percent. __Why is there evil? How many angels can dance on the head of a pin? How can we make love stay? All these answers, they're all... right here."_

_He was dying now; he could feel it. There was a short silence, punctuated by only the labored breathing of predator and prey. Once again, Claire broke it. "Are you gonna eat it?"_

_Sylar would've laughed, but it probably would have killed him. "Eat your brain?" He leaned in, so that his lips were almost touching her bloody forehead. "Claire, that's disgusting."_

_Running his fingertips over her brain, he once again found what he needed. "Ah... there it is..."_

_He had never seen someone jerk and gasp at the very moment when he took their ability. It was almost like a dying breath from the girl who couldn't die. Sylar stood and wrenched the kitchen knife from his chest. He pulled at the tear in his shirt so that he could see the wound heal. _Fascinating.

_Looking down at Claire, he realized that actually _had _been a dying breath. Couldn't have that, so he graciously put the top of her head back on. As she healed, he began walking to the door._

_"Wait," she said._

_He turned back. What could she possibly want from him?_

_"What about me; aren't you gonna kill me?" She sounded so confused, and yet... it was almost like she was pleading with him. Like she wanted this all to be over with. _

She must be completely traumatized_, he thought. _I've never left one alive before. Daddy Bennet will probably have something to say about this.

_"Poor girl," he said, with somewhat legitimate sentiment. "There's so much about yourself you don't understand. Your brain is not like the others, _you _are not like the others. You're different; special, and I couldn't kill you even if I wanted to."_

_Claire still looked confused. Maybe she was in shock. Or had she really failed to see the full implications of her ability? _

_"You can never die," he explained, then smiled. He hadn't really _felt _the full implications until that moment. "And now, I guess, neither can I."_

Nathan awoke suddenly, drenched in a cold sweat and panting as if he had just run a marathon. The clock's red digits broad-casted that it was only one in the morning. Nathan groaned.

He half-staggered to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his water. The shock of the water couldn't outweigh the shock of the dream, but it did help. When he had said _anyone else_, he hadn't included Claire in that category! What kind of psycho was he, dreaming like that about his own daughter? How could any sane man even come up with something like that? The details of it, the _thrill_, the _exhilaration_ of the conquest-

_You know she's not our daughter._

Slowly, Nathan lifted his head to examine himself in the mirror, ignoring the wayward and totally impossible thought. _God... _he thought. _I look horrible._

The whites of his eyes looked almost red; they were so bloodshot. How many shades paler had his face gone? Since when did he get shaving cuts, or- or look up and not recognize his own reflection? At times his eyes seemed too _shallow_ to belong to a human being. Could people tell what was going on beneath his politician's mask, his smiling exterior?

Nathan Petrelli addressed the face in the mirror with a question that was somehow familiar, in the same way that his dreams were familiar.

"_Who are you?_"

**A.N. **I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and that you choose to express your enjoyment, un-enjoyment, or any other thoughts in a **review! **I'm not sure when the next chapter will be up, because of finals and all that. When summer officially starts I will be writing as much as I can! A quick thingy about pairings: I'm still not totally sure what I'm going to do about that, but as you have probably noticed, there's been some Syelle-ish-ness in the dreams. That won't be a main pairing due to that fact that one half of it is dead. There may be some Peter/OC, Natelar/OC, or Sylaire, but I'm really not sure. It will depend on how the fic develops, and what you readers think. Speaking of development, things should start to really get moving next chapter! Yay!

Okay, I'm done. You can **review now please!** :)


	4. Complications

**A.N. **I didn't think I'd be able to get this up in time, but here it is! This chapter introduces some OCs. While the main focus of the plot is internal conflict, there still has to be some external conflict to help it along and let people use their powers on each other in epic fights. (Can you tell I read comics?) Okay, read on!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. This chapter's quote is from one of Lewis Carroll's works for a change. No, I don't know which one. It sort of has to do with Nathan not knowing what's going on in that increasingly complicated mind of his. Oh, and about how the return of Sylar is inevitable, even if nobody tries to bring him back. This isn't a huge identity-focussed installment, so I'm saving the really cool/dark quotes for other chapters.

Chapter 4: Complications

_"If you don't know where you are going, any road will get you there."_

Eugene, Oregon

Due to the tall stack of books blocking her view, Bridget Lynns almost tripped down the stairs coming out of Eugene Public Library.

_Some things never change_, she thought. It had been about three months since the agents (who had seemed like ninjas with tazers) had kicked down her door and knocked her out with those stupid electric-dart-guns. She had been unconscious almost constantly after that until some Indian guy had woken her up and told her to get out of the building. It hadn't really been the time to ask questions. The next thing she knew, the government was all of a sudden on her side; apologizing and paying for her flight back home. Sure, she had been able to get her job back (How many pretty girls were experts in virus protection software, after all?), but it had seemed like there was a giant, unexplained hole in her life.

So she had started to take extra precautions, both online and in her day to day life. _Take right now, for example_, Bridget thought. _Because of those stupid agents I decided to park my stupid car away from traffic cameras, so I have to walk half a block in the stupid rain! And my books are going to get wet!_

Bridget tried to flick some of her sopping bangs out of her eyes. Even without the curls that seemed to plague red-heads such as she, Bridget's hair always seemed to find some way to get in her face.

_Thud._

"Crap!" she exclaimed as her books were knocked out of her hands and onto the wet pavement. "I'm so sorry-"

She stopped her apology as soon as she looked up at the three men in front of her. One look was all she needed to see that she had not bumped into them; they had deliberately bumped into her. By the expressions on their faces, Bridget decided it would be a good idea to get away from them as soon as possible. She started to back up, and they advanced. _No surprise there. This is just great._

"Hey, doll. Sorry about that," said the man on the left. He was rail-thin and definitely over six feet tall. His pointed features were accentuated by a long nose and spiked hair. He couldn't be over thirty, and hardly looked like the type who would go accosting young women in alleys. _Oh, an alley. Wonderful,_ thought Bridget, when she realised she had just backed into one.

"It's fine," she said. _Just act calm, just act calm, don't want any accidents-_

"Glad to hear that," the man in the center of the group replied. "We got something we want to talk to you about, so we wouldn't want any hard feelings getting in the way of that. _Right_, Bend?" He gave the tall man a look. This guy, a black man a little younger and shorter than the first speaker, looked a bit more threatening (mainly due to the fact that he was pretty muscular), but he spoke like a perfect gentleman with his Southern drawl. There was definitely something weird going on here.

"And what's that?" It was hard to sound calm-yet-confident when your voice had just decided to go up an octave.

"Hey, hey, hey," said the third man. He was blond and baby-faced, and couldn't be over twenty one. He both looked and sounded twitchy, in a get-me-outta-here sort of way. "Don't freak. We just want to talk. Just not to talk _here_. Yeah, just not here."

"I don't think so," Bridget said, still trying to keep her composure.

"Aw, c'mon," said the blond guy. He rested his hand on the wall she was almost backed up against- a wall that was five feet away from him.

"Don't act surprised," said Bend. "You must have seen stuff like this in Building 26."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The blond retracted his arm, thank god, and moved up to join the rest of his group. "Course you do. You do- How couldn't ya, huh? Didn't your parents ever-"

"Shut it, Chuck," said Muscles. "Let's all just relax."

Bridget felt _very _relaxed, but in her muscles, not her mood. The alley started spinning, and it definitely had something to do with the green gas Muscles was exhaling.

"No!" she gasped, and engaged in the best self defense she could. The three men were now separated from her by a ring of fire.

Muscles nodded, as if he had expected this. "Nice. But why do you think we decided to get you in the rain?"

"Yeah," agreed Bend, who was suddenly _right behind her_!

"Who are you guys?" was all Bridget could say.

"People like you," Muscles replied. "I'm C.L. Christoph, but who we are _officially_- that's Outlook."

"What's Outlook?"

"Tell you when we get there," Bend said from behind her. He place a hand on her shoulder, and before she could do anything, they disappeared.

Manhattan, New York City, New York

Peter opened the door while Noah Bennet was in the middle of a knock.

"Hey, Noah," said Peter, sounding a little confused. Noah understood. He wasn't exactly known as an amazingly social person. When people - especially those with powers- got unexpected visits from him, it usually didn't bode well for them.

"Peter. Sorry I didn't tell you I was coming, but this is important. I wanted to tell you before the meeting."

"What mee- oh, right. The meeting. Wow, we're official now."

Noah smiled. "We were always official. You just weren't there."

"Right, right. Uh, come in." As Peter made way for him to enter the apartment, Noah couldn't help but think he looked a little tense. And how he'd said _Wow, we're official now_- that hadn't come the way it should have from Peter.

More things were out of place than a tone, however, when Noah entered the apartment. The blinds were closed and the windows were locked despite the warm weather. A strange assortment of clothing was strewn on the table and the floor. Glancing at the kitchen, the agent could see from the half-open cabinets and fridge that Peter had almost no food.

"Sorry about the mess," Peter mumbled. He sounded embarrassed, and in a guilty way. As if he'd been caught breaking the rules. _What is going on here?_

Noah chose to ignore the younger man's comment and cut to the chase. "How good are you at shape-shifting?"

There it was. Peter _flinched._ Had he switched to a different power; something hard to control, maybe a mental thing? "I'm okay," Peter said.

"Let's hope you're better than that, because we need your help for the first Company assignment." Before Peter could comment, Noah continued, "We're not exactly sure what it is, but it's called Outlook. At first glance, we thought it was another Company, but with better information it looks more like a gang, or possibly a new Mafia. It's made entirely of people with abilities. We want you to be ready to infiltrate Outlook and tell us exactly what's going on; are they dangerous, are they just bringing people together, who the main players are, can we recruit them? That kind of thing. Think you could handle that?"

Peter shrugged. "They only recruit people with powers. Wouldn't they be suspicious of a shape-shifter?"

"You'd have to gain their trust. Never revert to your actual form; use an alias."

"I don't know, Noah..." Peter said, averting his eyes to a spot on the floor. "I'm not-"

"Aren't your eyes brown?" Noah asked. _There _was some definite evidence in his search for out-of-the-ordinary things about Peter.

"Huh? Oh-um, yeah, they just..." The youngest Petrelli trailed off. He ran a hand through his hair to try to buy himself time.

Noah was not so easily dissuaded. "I thought you had to shift your entire body to copy someone else's. Did you get contacts?"

"No," Peter answered, shaking his head. "I, uh, this morning- they got stuck."

This Noah had not heard before. "They got _stuck_?"

"Yeah, yesterday I- I was this guy that I saw on the street the whole day, and I went to sleep as myself. But when I woke up this morning, I... they were blue." He gestured toward his face with fake nonchalance. "They're just stuck."

"Did you try to shift them back?"

"You think I _didn't_?" Peter snapped, then seemed to regret it. He was hiding something; it was written all over his face. For someone as used to hiding things as Noah Bennet, it was especially obvious.

"I'll ask about the Outlook job when we have more information," conceded Noah. He opened the door and stepped out into the hall. "See you at the meeting?"

"Yeah," said Peter. Noah watched in confusion as the door closed in his face. Something was off; it didn't take an expert to see that. Was it the shape shifting? If it was, the Outlook assignment was exactly what Peter needed, Noah decided. He needed to put his power to a good use. That was what the Company had always done best.

Petrelli Mansion

Nathan entered the place he had grown up in with a feeling of apprehension. He had never fully realized what had gone on in this house. Matters of life and death and love and war had been decided in the rooms where he and Pete had used to fight over the remote (Nathan usually won) or where the whole family would decorate their massive Christmas tree. His mother had almost murdered his father at the very table where he had used to compliment her Thanksgiving turkey.

How could his view of the world change so much, and yet his memories still be real? The Mr. Linderman who had dressed up as Santa Claus a few times had turned out to be a mobster, then turned out to be a healer bent on destroying New York. The Bob Bishop who he had mentally dismissed as loser had been about to turn objects into _gold_ the entire time! And Angela, his own mother-

_But she's not our mother._

That voice again. That doubt that crept up out of his dreams and threatened to eat him alive. _Yes, she is,_ he told it.

_She's our enemy, and if you were really _you_ then she would already be dead. _

_I am really me. There's no one _but _me. _You're _the one that's not real. _You're _the reason I'm getting therapy, you and those dr-_

_Memories? What, are they making you sick? Nathan Petrelli never saw any of the bodies, did he? Did he even comfort his daughter after it happened?_

_Shut up. You're the one who's sick._

_Oh, I've never heard _that_ one before._

_Leave me alone. Just shut up and-_

"Nathan?" There was that increasingly familiar, worried look on her face. "I didn't hear you come in. How are you?"

He plastered that politician smile on his face and gave Angela a quick hug. "I'm fine, Ma. Anybody else here yet?"

Angela was back to normal, as if she had never been concerned about him at all. "No, you're the first one. I don't know where Peter is, but Noah's picking Claire up at the airport. She got accepted to a college in DC a few days ago, so she went down there to see the campus in person."

"I thought she wanted to go to UCLA?" Nathan wasn't sure what he thought about Claire living so close to where he worked, not after the dream of two nights ago. If he was exposed to her on a regular basis, would the dreams feature Claire more often?

"She did, but apparently she was considering Walden College too. I don't think she told very many people," Angela said. "I don't think she wanted it to seem like she just wanted to be able to see you and Noah more often."

Nathan shrugged. "Makes sense. Any luck with people outside the family? Parkman, or Suresh?"

"No, but we haven't really tried yet. We still have some time to convince them before the new Company is up and running." A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. Angela went to answer it, and Claire and Noah stepped in. Claire ran to give Nathan a hug. Ever since Mexico, their relationship had actually resembled a functional father-daughter one. Noah would always be her real father, but Nathan was closing the gap between them. He couldn't help but notice the almost-grimace on Noah's face when Nathan hugged his daughter. It didn't look like jealousy, but wasn't entirely approving. By the time the two men shook hands, the look was gone. Like always.

The group stood in the entryway for a moment before Nathan voiced what everyone was thinking. "So now we're just waiting on-"

Peter burst through the door. "Hey. Looks like I'm the last one."

Peter shook Noah's hand and hugged both Claire and Angela before turning to Nathan. They hugged briefly before Nathan got a good look at his younger brother's face. It looked paler than usual, more so since Peter was wearing all black. His hair was messy (but not as if he'd meant it to be that way) and there were the beginnings of dark circles around his eyes. And his eyes themselves-

"They're _blue_," Nathan said. "What did you do, Pete, get contacts? Don't tell me you're dying your hair blond."

"Very funny," Peter said. "I'm not, for your information."

"So what's the deal?"

Peter let out an irritated sigh. "They got stuck. I was shape shifting, and they got stuck. That's it. No big story, okay?"

"Okay, okay," said Nathan, backing off. They had enough touchy subjects between them without adding another one to the list. He couldn't help but mentally criticize his brother's appearance. What could possibly be wrong with Peter? Nathan's skin was paler, his eyes more bloodshot, and the rings around them darker than his brother's, but he had at least brushed his hair and made himself look like he had been getting some sleep. Peter's problem was probably the night shift he was working at the hospital. The only jobs Peter could get after quitting as a hospice nurse and abandoning his paramedic job were those on the graveyard shift. Changing IVs was probably a lot less fun at two in the morning.

The group moved into the living room. Nathan noticed that Claire and Peter looked apprehensive. Peter even seemed a little resentful.

_He probably thinks I'm in on everything, _Nathan thought. _It's not like they've told me anything._

_Because they don't trust you._

The doorbell interrupted the start of another mental battle.

"I got it," Nathan and Claire said at the same time. Nathan answered the door with his daughter and brother right behind him. He didn't blame them for following; none of them was in a hurry to start the meeting.

Standing on the front steps of the Petrelli Mansion was a completely average looking boy maybe a year younger than Claire. He carried an unmarked cardboard box sealed with duct tape, and sounded a little nervous as he asked, "Is Arthur Petrelli there?"

**A.N. **I know some of you are going "What? Arthur? No!" I'll just clear this up right now: I am NOT bringing Arthur back to life. But what is this mysterious package? Doesn't it just smell like a conspiracy to you? Also, what do you think of the new developments? Please tell me with your suggestions, praise, or criticism in a **review! :)**

_Click the button. It's right down there. See it?_


	5. The Influence of the Dead

**A.N. **At last, the fifth chapter is up! I apologize that it took longer than usual; I was on vacation last week. I also had to make a timeline of all the important canon events dealing with Company founders, which I then added my non-canon events to and color coded. (Can you say _major OCD geek?_) In case you're wondering, all the canon events are from official _Heroes_ sources. I won't list them, because I don't want to scare you away from reading the actual chapter. Oh, and **please reveiw!**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Heroes_ or the Girl Scouts or anything else. This chapter's quote is from _Macbeth_. Sorry about the weird space between lines one and two; I couldn't figure out how to get it not to do that. (This resulted in computer rage.) Anyway, it was said by the man himself (Macbeth) after his wife died, when he believed his life was charmed so he could not be killed. This refers to the second scene of this chapter, which can be interpreted in a few different ways (I think). Okay, go read now!

Chapter 5: The Influence of the Dead

_"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow_

_Creeps in this petty pace from day to day  
To the last syllable of recorded time,  
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools  
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle,  
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player  
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage  
And then is heard no more. It is a tale  
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,  
Signifying nothing."_

Petrelli Mansion

"Is Arthur Petrelli here?" Nathan repeated, mostly because of the shock.

"Yeah, I've got this package I'm supposed to give to him," said the teenager. Something about his slouch and his attitude made Nathan dubious of the visitor's character.

"Arthur Petrelli killed himself over a year ago," Peter said.

Nathan was confused for a moment, until he remembered that he had changed the official story of his father's death to explain why Peter had jumped off a roof in a way that would help his political career. If Claire had the back-stories mixed up, she didn't show it.

_One of the benefits of being raised by Noah Bennet, _Nathan thought.

_Along with free bodyguard service, _came the unwanted commentary.

"Well that sucks, 'cause the next guy's all the way in Vegas," said the teen. Then he seemed to realize that this was _Vegas_ he was talking about.

"What's your name?" asked Nathan, making the connection to Linderman.

"Luke Campbell."

_We know him._

_I've never seen him before in my life, _Nathan countered. Out loud, he said, "I think you'd better come inside."

By that point, Noah and Angela had realized that their children were not buying Girl Scout cookies and had come to investigate. Luke and his anonymous cargo entered the mansion to face the entire Petrelli clan. This was not a position that anyone would want to be in.

"I know who you are," said Noah. "You're the one who killed Agent Simmons. Luke."

"You killed an agent?" said Claire with a sort of jaded horror.

_Melted his brain like butter in a microwave-_

Luke seemed to feel the hostile atmosphere. "Look, I'm just here about the package-"

"It's for Dad," cut in Peter.

Angela took over the situation quickly. "Arthur was my husband. He was very open with me about his work. Don't worry; you can give the package to me."

Luke tightened his grip on the box. "You're Angela Petrelli?" he asked.

"Yes, dear," answered Angela in her deceptive, grandmotherly way.

"Yeah, he told me specifically not to give it to you."

"Who's 'he'?" Nathan inquired.

"Samson Gray," Noah said. "Isn't that right, Luke? He was your next door neighbor. When Danko's men came for him, he disappeared."

"How'd you know about that? And how'd you know that stuff about me and the agent?" Luke took a wary step backward. "Were you one of them?"

"Yes, but I was working to take them down from the inside."

Luke was not greatly reassured. Nathan noted that his mother didn't exactly look comfortable either. Noah and Angela had some explaining to do about Samson Gray. He knew that the man was Sylar's father, but Samson had been off the radar for years. The Primatech files said that he had lost his powers. Was this another conspiracy woven by his parents and the other Company founders?

"So say you deliver the package," said Peter. "What then?"

Luke shrugged. "I don't know. The old man said I could take over his taxidermy place, but like I said-"

"You don't know," finished Nathan. An idea sprung into his mind. "When you do decide, whatever it is would be a lot easier with an extra five grand."

Luke (as well as Peter and Claire, for that matter) gaped at him. Then the teen's greed got the better of him, and he replied, "Ten grand and you got a deal."

Nathan shook his head. "For all I know, the box is empty and this is a huge scam. Six."

Luke confirmed that something was in the box by shaking it around. "Nine."

"Seven thousand, five hundred dollars. That's my final offer."

It took about half a second for Luke to make up his mind. "Fine. It's a deal."

The politician and the runaway shook hands. After Peter was holding the package, Nathan began writing the check. Luke looked over his shoulder to read the signature.

"You're Nathan Petrelli?" he asked.

"I am," Nathan replied without hesitation. The kid was talking to him like he had talked to Noah. That didn't happen all that often.

_She flinched. Did you see that? Angela flinched._

_Shut up._

"You're the one who sold us out."

"I-"

_Don't be an idiot. We just went along with the flow. If we gave everyone to the government, there would be nothing left for us. Unless _we_ were the government, then-_

"I was."

Luke took his money and ran.

"How did he-" Nathan began, but then remembered. "He was the kid who was with Sylar when he stole the tracking system."

"Wait, he hung around with Sylar and he's still alive?" Claire asked incredulously.

"Apparently. When Sylar came to D.C. without him I assumed he'd been killed," Noah said.

Peter set the box on the floor and started to peel off the duct tape. "Mom, what do you know about this? What did Dad have to do with this Samson guy?"

Angela still looked disturbed. "We first heard of Samson Gray before the Company had officially started. It was the year your father and I starting dating, and Arthur was the only member who wasn't from the Coyote Sands group."

"How'd you hear of him?" asked Claire.

"We didn't hear of _him,_ really. Bob and Daniel located a man who had the ability to sedate people by whistling, almost hypnotically. Two days later, he was found dead with his brain removed."

"So he has the same ability as Sylar. I got the impression it was really rare," said Peter.

"It is rare," said Noah. "Samson Gray is Sylar's father."

"He was in the first group of people we tried to round up at Building 26. He killed the three agents we sent to capture him and disappeared," added Nathan. He felt like there was something more he could be saying, but that was ridiculous. There was hardly anything in Samson's file, and Nathan had never met the man.

"Okay, but why would he send Dad a package full of..." Peter inspected the contents of the box. "Papers, notebooks, and file folders. And all the folders are labeled _The Athenian Files_?"

"Peter, nobody in the Company saw Samson after 1966. Even then we had thought he was dead for a year, and Arthur only saw him briefly before he ran away. We know Sylar was his son because he has the same rare ability and was raised by Samson's sister-in-law," said Angela.

"Wait, start at the beginning," Claire said. "What happened between the first time you heard of him and 1966?"

Angela sighed. "When there was a second murder like the first we knew that we had to investigate. We didn't really make any real progress until the next year, 1964. It was only a month after Arthur and I got married when Charles discovered who was the victim of Samson's first murder. It was his sister."

"He killed his own _sister_?" said Nathan incredulously. He was completely disgusted, but fighting a smirk at the same time. _Another thing I might not want to mention at therapy tomorrow._

"It led us to his identity," said Angela. "The year after that was when we finally caught up to him. Arthur and Bob found Samson almost by accident, and didn't have time to get back-up. Samson and Arthur fought and both ended up almost dying. Charles, Daniel, and I got there too late to stop Samson's escape. Arthur ended up recovering, but it was very difficult for Daniel to heal him. We concluded that Samson's injuries were so severe that he must have died shortly after his escape. Obviously, we were wrong. Arthur saw Samson about six months later by chance. He told us that he seemed to have lost his powers, and we believed him. We didn't have any reason not to."

"Looks like Dad and Samson were working together," said Peter. He was flipping through one of the notebooks. "There are notes, journal entries, pictures, even a video tape in here."

"Just when we thought we knew everything about Arthur Petrelli," remarked Noah.

Nathan was about to ask his mother if there was anything else they needed to know, but Peter had exclaimed, "These are amazing! They knew more about abilities than whoever wrote the Primatech files; at least it seems like it by what I've read of them. Can I take these back to my place?"

Everyone else in the room exchanged a look that Peter, absorbed by the Athenian Files, completely missed. "I don't see why not," ventured Nathan.

"Somebody needs to look at these," said Noah. "If there's any new discoveries about abilities, we should know so we can incorporate them into the new Company files."

Peter wasn't paying attention to the answer to his own question. "Huh? Oh, great. I guess I'll just go then."

The younger Petrelli brother was out the door before Angela and Noah could finish their protests that they hadn't even _started_ the meeting yet. The sound of the door closing ushered in an awkward silence.

"What's with him?" Claire asked.

"Those files must be pretty great. Or it's the night job?" said Nathan, but it fooled no one. It wasn't even half-way meant to. Why was he making an excuse for Peter's weird behavior?

_So we will appear normal, and nobody will notice _our _'weird behavior.' Don't you know your own motives anymore?_

Yes, he was counting down the hours until his next ineffective therapy session.

New York City, New York

Claire wished she could have stayed in New York longer so she could spend some more time with Peter, but on Thursday morning she was in the car to the airport after only one night at the Petrelli Mansion. Noah had woken up early to give her a ride to JFK. He kept trying to talk to her, and Claire felt bad that she was too tired to really appreciate the time with her adoptive father.

The beep of Claire's cell phone interrupted the momentary silence. She read the text unenthusiastically: U AWAKE YET?

It was from Larson, a semi-cute guy in her history class at Costa Verde Community College. She groaned and flipped her phone closed. Noah grasped this as a possible conversation topic. "You're not going to reply?"

"No, it's just this guy in one of my classes."

"Does he know how early it is?" Noah asked, sounding amused.

"There is the time difference," said Claire. "But yeah, he does. He asked me if I was awake."

"Sounds like he likes you," said Noah. It implied _Do you have a boyfriend that you're not telling me about?_

Claire shrugged. "Yeah, he's asked me out a few times. I said no."

"Didn't want more annoying text messages at five a.m.?"

"He usually doesn't do that. I think it's just because I'm not in Costa Verde. I do kind of like him, but it's just- I don't know..." Claire trailed off. Why had she even gone there? All she had told her mom was that she didn't want a long distance relationship when she left to go to Walden. Why would her dad need a different explanation?

"It's just what?" Noah asked. "You don't have many friends your own age, maybe you should give it a try. I talked to your mother last week-"

"_Mom_ told you about my _social life_?"

"And she thinks you're upset about the divorce," finished Noah. He examined her peripherally to see her reaction. "She also thinks you might be uncomfortable around people who don't have abilities, or haven't gone through the same types of things you have. She wanted me to talk to you about it."

"Dad, it's not that," Claire said, then changed her mind. "Okay, it kind of is. I thought you and Mom were happy together, and then everything fell apart. Our _family _fell apart."

"Claire, you wouldn't make the same mistakes I did," said Noah. "It's my fault our family is the way it is. You know that. It's not anything you did."

"I know, but..." ___He's probably been freaking out; not being able to protect me from anything from across the country. __Might as well just tell him the truth. _She rushed the next part of her statement. "Even if I get married and it does work out, in sixty years it probably wouldn't matter anyway. He'd be dead."

Noah clearly hadn't anticipated _that_ response. "Claire-"

"You, Mom, Nathan, Peter, Lyle, Angela- you'll all be dead, and so will any friends I make in college." Claire tried to slow down her breathing; she hadn't thought it would fell so bad to say out loud what she'd been thinking about for almost three months now. "It's just- it's kind of hard to deal with."

"I know it must be hard, but you don't have to worry about that for years," said Noah. He sounded confused.

"I don't have to _worry_? I should just _ignore_ the fact that everyone I know is going to drop like flies and I won't have anyone left?" She hadn't meant to raise her voice; she wasn't supposed to be fighting tears; she shouldn't have used _his _stupid phrase to express the growing panic that had invaded her nightmares and stray thoughts.

It had to be divine intervention that stopped the car from crashing, because driving was the last thing on Noah Bennet's mind. "Where did you hear all this?"

Claire tried to back out of the conversation she should have never taken this direction in the first place. "Dad, it's not something I heard; it's a just a fact-"

"It was Sylar, wasn't it? Back at the Stanton, he tried to get under your skin about the whole immortality thing," Noah almost shouted.

"Does it matter if it was him? It's going to happen either way!" said Claire, then more quietly, "He's dead now anyway."

When Noah spoke next, he had also lowered his voice. Maybe it was harder to hear about something Sylar did when there was nothing he could do about it anymore. "When we asked you what happened back at that hotel, you said 'Nothing.' Now I need you to tell me the truth."

"He didn't hurt me or anything," said Claire. Noah was the last person she wanted to talk to about this. The only person she might have _ever_ brought it up to was Peter, but even that was unlikely. "He just talked to me about how both of us would live forever, and everyone I knew was going to die. He said something about how he finally got to meet his real dad. I just told him that I would try to kill him as long as I lived, and stuff like that."

Noah's suspicious nature was still far from appeased. Whenever his daughter or his arch-enemy was concerned, it rarely was; but when it was both of them together? It looked like only arriving at the airport would save Claire. He asked, "Anything else?"

"Not really."

"Not _really_?"

"It's not important," dismissed Claire unconvincingly.

"Everything is important," said Noah. There was a definite edge to his voice.

"He sort of..." How was she supposed to describe this in a way that wouldn't cause her father to freak out even more? "He mentioned that he thought we would get together in like fifty years. In passing. Sort of."

"What?!"

Claire tried to laugh it off. "I know, he's a delusional psycho. He might have even been kidding, who-"

"When Sylar has hostages, he rarely _kids_ with them," said Noah. The edge was now paired with a white-knuckled death grip on the steering wheel. "You're playing down the situation."

"Okay, so he was serious. He even said this weird 'first First Lady' thing. But he didn't _do _anything. Sylar's dead, Dad. Everybody saw him burn. He's not coming back," said Claire. She added for good measure, "I'm fine."

They were in the JFK parking lot, but Noah wasn't about to let his daughter leave yet. "Claire, I know you're not fine," said Noah with a kinder tone than before. "Just... try to live life normally. You still have the time to make friends and enjoy having a family before any of us die."

Claire complied, and father and daughter said their temporary farewells. Though each smiled on the outside to appease the other, both of them left with a shadow over their thoughts.

**A.N. **This is another chapter I'm not quite confident in, so please tell me what you think in a **review! **Suggestions, compliments, and criticism are all welcome!


	6. Jail Break, part I

**A.N. **I updated later than usual last time, so I'll update sooner than usual this time. I hope you like this next installment. It introduces to this fic a grand total of eight characters you already know, and very minor one you don't. The focus of the fic is still what it says in the summary, though. This is just a more light-hearted detour. Spoiler: There is a Doctor Who reference. Oo, I wonder _Who _will be joining us? ^^ (That wasn't the reference, btw.) Now go forth, and **R&R!**

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Heroes_, don't own anything, blah dee blah blah. This quote is from _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. _It is said from Henry Jekyll to his best friend, Utterson.

Chapter 6: Jail Break, part I

_"I am painfully situated, Utterson; my position is a very strange--a very strange one. It is one of those affairs that cannot be mended by talking."_

Arlington, Virginia

_Therapy, take three, _Nathan thought. He took a deep breath to brace himself as he entered Dr. Moreno's office. She wasn't there, but another familiar face was.

"Aren't you Molly Walker?" Nathan asked brown-haired girl. She was swiveling in the doctor's chair, listening to music through blue ear-buds.

Molly smiled and paused the old Discman that clashed with her colorful ear-wear. "Mr. Petrelli? I didn't know you knew Isabel. How are Matt and Mohinder? Are they here too?"

Nathan couldn't help but smile at her hopeful enthusiasm. "No, they're not here. I haven't seen either of them in a few months, but I'm sure they're doing fine. Why are you here, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Isabel is my foster mom. I was sick this morning, so she brought me to work with her instead of leaving me home alone. Between you and me," Molly said, lowering her voice. "She worries way too much."

"Just shows she cares about you," said Nathan, but it was forced. Standing there and talking to Molly had become a strain.

_"Why are you doing this?" The question was made of more sobs than actual speech. Not that he could blame her; the woman did have a rolling pin through her left leg. Various kitchen utensils in her limbs were attaching her to the wall. It reminded him of third-grade recess, when a group of boys would try to catch flies and pin their wings to the ground with tooth picks._

"Mr. Petrelli?"

"Hm? Oh, sorry. What did you say?" Nathan tried to focus on Molly. Maybe her happy innocence would wash these thoughts from his mind.

"Are you one of Isabel's clients?" she repeated.

_"Please," the man begged. "Please! Kill me, just leave my family alone!"_

_"I'm afraid that's not going to happen, Mr. Walker. You see, I came here for your daughter. Your power is just a bonus."_

"Yes," he said. "I, uh, I've been having some problems I thought she could help me sort out."

It was then that Dr. Moreno came into the room, a little out of breath. "Sorry I'm late," she said. "I see you've met Molly. I've been fostering her for a while now. She's an amazing kid."

"Believe me, I know," said Nathan.

Dr. Moreno looked at him quizzically. Molly said, "Mr. Petrelli knew Matt and Mohinder."

"What a coincidence," said the doctor a bit cautiously.

Molly smiled again. "It's okay," she assured her foster mom. "He knows about people with abilities. He and Matt worked together to stop the Nightmare Man."

"You did?" said Dr. Moreno skeptically. Nathan shrugged.

"And he saved New York by-" continued Molly.

"That was a while ago," interrupted Nathan. He did not want his therapist to know that his life sometimes involved fights with super-powered serial killers, or flying human bombs into the atmosphere. He wanted make sure she treated him exactly like her other clients, not like some kind of superhero.

Dr. Moreno seemed to sense that Nathan was uncomfortable with the conversation. She turned to Molly. "Why don't you go down to the lobby and hang out with Rhonda? I'm sure she could use some company."

Molly agreed reluctantly. Before she left, she made Nathan promise to tell Dr. Moreno how her former guardians were faring if he saw them.

Instead of asking Nathan if he had had any more dreams, Dr. Moreno's opening statement was: "You have an ability, don't you?"

"Yes," Nathan said after a pause. Even though he had decided to embrace the part of him that wasn't 'normal' when he had called Sylar _one of us_, it was still difficult not to back away from the question. "I think you can understand why I didn't tell you."

Dr. Moreno nodded. "Of course I can. But now that I know, you can't hide things because they have to do with your ability, or anyone else's. I said these sessions would be totally confidential, and I'll stand by that."

"I know. Thank you."

"I know this may not be a question relevant to your mental health," began Dr. Moreno almost shyly. "But what is it? Your ability, I mean."

"I can fly," replied Nathan.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Oh-oh my god," she stammered, then composed herself. "Sorry. Even having taken care of Molly so long, I'm really not used to this kind of thing. Her power seemed like a-a psychic thing at first, but you can _fly_. Wow."

_If she thinks it's that great, she really needs to get out more. Besides, you know we could do _so _much more._

_We- _I _can fly, and that's more than enough._

_For now._

_What are you talking about? All these abilities have led to is disaster. Why would I want _more _of them?_

"You said I can't hide things from you," said Nathan, mentally shooting it at the voice. Once it was out in the open, maybe it would go away. "So I'm going to tell you the _real _reason I'm here. I've been hearing voices."

"Voices?"

"Sorry, one voice. Sometimes it tells me what to do, or that I know someone I've never met. It talks like I'm two people; myself and-" How was he supposed to tell her the truth now? Instead of making her want to help him, it would push her away.

Dr. Moreno was focused intently on him. "And who?" she prompted.

"The man I am in my dreams. The man who killed Molly's parents," Nathan finished. The voice cringed along with him.

"So you're telling me," Dr. Moreno began, breaking her serene facade for the first time Nathan had ever witnessed. "Who you are in these dreams is the same person Molly's too terrified of to call anything but _'the boogeyman'_? That sweet girl is so traumatized, she- but I shouldn't be taking it out on _you_. You're not him."

"I'm not," Nathan agreed. "That's why I need your help. Sylar's dead, but it's like part of him survived. It's like he's hiding inside of me, waiting to take me over when I let my guard down-"

He broke off what was turning into a panicked rant. This was not him. Senator Nathan Petrelli always knew who he was, and where he stood. If he was uncertain, he didn't show it. Even those who believed he was wrong often admired his conviction. Dr. Moreno saw Nathan's fear, and -in an unprofessional gesture- reached out and took his hand.

"It's okay to admit you need help," she said quietly. "Now that I know what the problem really is, it'll be much easier. I promise. You're a good man, and I'll do everything I can to help you remember who you really are."

Her eyes held only sincerity and compassion for him, Nathan realized. "Thank you," he managed to choke out. He cleared his throat in an attempt to regain his composure.

Dr. Moreno returned to her usual position; legal pad open, pen ready, expression both kind and alert. "Apparently there's a lot more to you than meets the eye, Mr. Petrelli. So let's start at the beginning. When did you discover that you could fly?"

Manhattan, New York City, New York

Arthur Petrelli had never gotten along well with his younger son. It had never been a secret that he had thought Peter was weak and would probably never amount to anything. Only Angela had known that her husband's increasing frustration was partly due to Peter not manifesting any powers- at least, not during his _official_ lifetime.

Peter Petrelli had always thought his dad was a control freak who tried to put himself above the law by becoming a criminal defense attorney. Not that all criminal defense attorneys were bad, just ones that got their paycheck from the Linderman Group, who everybody knew was basically the mob.

Both father and son had always been totally convinced that they had exactly nothing in common. Arthur had disgustedly exclaimed, "How could you be my son?" when Peter had hesitated to shoot him in the head.

Now Peter sat engrossed by the studies of Arthur and a serial killer, wishing he could speak to his father one more time. In a journal entry dated June, 1967, there was a passage that read:

_I've been thinking about this for a while now. I would experiment, but if things went wrong Angela would be in danger. Not that I completely believe everything Samson says about his ability, but some things you can't risk. _

_Back when I could only absorb one power, I didn't think I would ever be able to do more. Obviously, now I can hold on to as much as I want. If I took just __one__ of Samson's powers, would I be able to collect the rest of them through that? Both of our abilities are sort of empathic. Not completely, like the kid from Tennessee that Angela and Bobby met a few months after Coyote Sands. If I tapped into my empathy __and__ the empathy I had absorbed (but did not have full access to) from him, could I get all the abilities he's picked up from just absorbing one?_

_Of course I could absorb all of them with the way my power is now, but he'd probably kill me before I could use them to defend myself. I would be breaking the treaty._

_Samson has another theory about my power. He thinks I could evolve it to the point where I could actually __steal__ people's abilities by __removing them completely__ from their original owner. It's tempting, but I can't experiment right now. There's still too great a risk of being caught._

Peter picked up the phone to call Angela, but was interrupted by his alarm clock. The incessant beeping declared that it was nine thirty at night. Time to go to work.

Peter sighed, and toyed with the idea of calling in sick. He decided against it when he remembered that there was still no food in the apartment. He hadn't eaten since his last shift, and needed to make use of the hospital cafeteria again.

"Do you know I could do more? Are you hiding it from me?" Peter asked the phone. He resolved to call his mother in the morning.

Northfield, Vermont

Footsteps in the stone hall outside told Bridget Lynns that the guards were bringing in some more unwilling recruits. _So the powers that be still think that if they lock us up, we'll want to join, _she thought bitterly.

From the fuzzy idea she had of time in the dark cell, Bridget was pretty sure that it had been a week since the Three Super-stooges had teleported her to the Outlook head quarters. Sure, the giant underground maze of tunnels and rooms was the most impressive and unexplainable thing she'd ever seen. She still didn't think her powers made her superior to normal people, no matter how many brain-washing (or _inspiring_, as all the Outlook members said) speeches she heard.

To Bridget's surprise, the super-strong (literally) guards threw her not one, but _two_ cell-mates. _So much for solitary confinement to clear my head_, she thought.

Her new roomies then commenced speaking to each other in what sounded like Japanese. Bridget groaned internally. _This _was going to be fun.

"Um, excuse me?" she ventured. The two men looked in her direction. One was taller than average and lean; the other was shorter, a little on the chubby side, and wore glasses.

"Yes?" said the tall one.

"Oh, I was gonna ask if you spoke English. In that case, what're you two in for?" Bridget asked.

"We are here to rescue you," said the short one.

"I don't think so. They drug you if your power could help you escape. And you don't know me. Why would you want to rescue me?"

"Wait, don't start for a second," said the tall one.

"What?" said Bridget, confused.

"Not you," said the short one. "Put it on speaker," he told his partner.

To Bridget's amazement, the taller man took the smallest ear-piece she had ever seen out of his left ear and placed it in his palm. "Speaker one," he told it. "Voice activated," he explained to Bridget.

The other man beckoned her to come closer. "We can't turn it up too loud."

"Are you guys like Japanese MI6 or-" Bridget was quickly shushed by the two men.

"Rebel here. Everyone should be in position," said a voice from the tiny speaker. This _Rebel_ sounded like he couldn't be out of middle school yet. Bridget could barely keep her questions to herself.

"Okay, roll call," continued Rebel. "Alien?"

"Emergency escape, ready," replied Alien. At least this guy was a little older, but he had to be just out of high school. How many friends with gadgets did the dynamic duo have? Did they all have _code names_?

"Claude?"

Okay, maybe not that one.

"Ready to get caught in this bloody closet. I thought the kid was going to drop me on the way to the roof," grumbled Claude. He was a lot older than Rebel and Alien, and sounded like he had a British accent.

"I wasn't gonna drop you," insisted a voice Bridget recognized as Alien's.

Claude still didn't sound happy. "Oh, right. Fantastic you were-"

Rebel cut him off by continuing his roll call. "Kensei?"

"Here," said the man standing to Bridget's right. "We are at the end of Cell Block A."

"Crimson Arc?"

"Here," said the man holding the ear-piece. A figurative light-bulb seemed to go on over his head, and he turned to Bridget. "Hey, what's your power?"

"And your name," added Rebel.

"Who are you talking to?" said a female voice with a Southern accent.

"I'm Bridget Lynns. I can heat things up and shoot flames-"

"A fire-starter! Now _that_'ll do us some good," said Claude, sounding more enthusiastic than before.

The so-called Crimson Arc nodded. "We need your help."

"Um, okay," Bridget said. She wasn't sure whether these people were brilliant or insane. Either way, they appeared to know more about the situation then she did, _and_ they had an escape plan.

"Explain later," said Rebel. "We don't have that much time. Hanuman?"

"Here." This male voice also had an accent, but it was hard to place. "I'm with Yukiko in Cell Block C, but she's not doing well. You were right about them thinking hunger and sleep deprivation would induce trances."

"Saint Joan?"

The young woman's voice replied, "I'm here in Cell Block B."

"Good. One minute to meal time," said Rebel. "When Joan takes out her guards, that's your signal, Blocks A and C. Claude, you start now. Rebel out."

"Speaker off," said the Crimson Arc, putting his ear-piece back where it was designed to go.

Meanwhile, the one called Kensei had pulled down his pants, revealing armor-like padding strapped to his left leg, a weapon strapped to his right leg, and blue boxer shorts. Bridget wasn't sure whether to laugh or ask, "Is that a _samurai sword_?!" When she went for the second option, Kensei told her that it was, in fact, a samurai sword.

"Oh, that explains a lot," Bridget responded sarcastically. "You guys need to tell me what's going on here."

Crimson Arc gave a hurried explanation. "Me and Hir- Kensei live in Japan. We were fighting crime with the help of a mangaka -a manga artist and writer- who draws the future."

"This is Yukiko?" Bridget asked, drawing on what Hanuman had said over the speaker.

"Yes. She called us when she was running from three men. All she could say was that they were from something called Outlook and they were American. We were tracking her on GPS, and suddenly she disappeared to Vermont. We emailed Rebel, and he told us that he had been investigating Outlook and wanted to free their prisoners, and eventually shut them down."

"So you guys joined up?"

Crimson Arc was about to say something else, but Kensei spoke to him in Japanese first. Bridget was pleased to see that the smaller man had pulled up his pants once he had re-attached the sword's scabbard to his leg. The unsheathed sword was firmly in his grip, and his something in his face made her take him more seriously than before.

"There's Saint Joan!" said Kensei, clearly commenting on what he heard over his Honey-I-Shrunk-The-Bluetooth.

"Put your hands to the door," Crimson Arc ordered Bridget. When she complied, he explained, "I'm a power-charger. If you heat up your hands on the door, and I charge you-"

"It'll melt!" Bridget exclaimed. "Okay, I'm _way_ more confident in the escape plan now."

"Ready?"

Bridget nodded. She braced herself with her hands on the cell door, and poured everything she had into melting it. The Crimson Arc put his hands on her shoulders and she felt the surge of extra power going through her system. It wasn't painful; it was exhilarating. And it _worked_! It was a miracle they were able to get through the doorway, but it _worked_!

"Alright, now we do the rest of the block," said Crimson Arc.

The hallway seemed awfully long to Bridget, but she nodded again and started on the next door. Just as Crimson Arc touched her shoulders, he was distracted and yelled what sounded like a warning in Japanese. Before Bridget could move, Kensei had turned on the two guards running down the hall. They were the same pair that had escorted her new allies to their cell. One of the two thugs yelled, "Hey!"

It was already too late. Kensei had disabled both guards in a matter of seconds. Bridget stopped heating the door to stare at the rather large figures slumped against the walls of Cell Block A. "Nice," she said in astonishment.

Kensei gave a quick bow. "Thank you," he said solemnly. "I have been retraining in the way of the sword."

"Hurry," urged Crimson Arc. "We need to free the prisoners before time runs out!"

"Are you guys like," Bridget searched for the right word, "_superheroes_?"

The expressions on the faces of both men brightened. "Yes," said Kensei.

"Okay, then," said Bridget. She once again placed her hands on the thick stone door. "Let's start a jail break."

**A.N. **End of the chapter! **Please review **with your compliments, comments, criticism, suggestions, or spaghetti sauce recipes. If you can't figure out who someone is by their code name and dialogue, you'll know next chapter. Only Yukiko is an OC. Speaking of which, how are Dr. Moreno and Bridget? If you think they're being Mary Sues or whatever, please tell me. If _anyone_is acting OOC, pleasey _please_ tell me.

Okey dokey, that's all. You can click that **review** button now.


	7. Jail Break, part II

**A.N. **Hooray for Chapter 7! It's shorter than usual. And yes, I am leaving you in suspense with the Outlook breakout for another chapter. ^^ Chapter VII features a different sort of jail break, and is much less light-hearted than Chapter VI. I really hope that you enjoy it and that it came out well. **Please** tell me your opinion in a **review** when you're done reading. Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed so far!! Love you all!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Heroes_ or anything else. This chapter gets another Lewis Carroll quote. Again, I don't know which of his works it's from, and I apologize. A section of this chapter was directly inspired by this quote. It'll be pretty obvious when you get to it. On with the story!

Chapter 7: Jail Break, part II

_"He was part of my dream, of course - but then I was part of his dream too."_

Petrelli Mansion

The ringing phone woke Angela. Disoriented, she stared at the absence of the color red. Just seconds ago her vision had been flooded with it, and now it was nowhere to be found. As absent as a clear interpretation of that dream.

_Ring!_

It reminded her of riding the bus downtown when she was twelve with little Alice in tow. Between their stop and their father's office (their final destination) was a huge rally. Men and women -mostly young students- with signs: RATHER DEAD THAN RED! and the less catchy MAKE OUR TOWN COMMIE-FREE!

No one in the town where the Shaws lived was ever proved to be a Communist, though the rallies continued. The Red Scare had been wasted on those passionate citizens.

_Ring!_

Was her fear wasted on this dream?

_Ring!_

No. It was as ominous as those night-time visions of New York in flames, only far more personal.

_Ring!_

Angela shakily answered the phone, still in a cold sweat. "Hello?"

"I don't want Claire hanging around Nathan so much anymore," was the reply. Only Noah would call so late, and only if he had been thinking about something for a while.

"Why not?" Angela asked. Now that Noah had gotten his opening statement out, he was more attentive and noticed that her voice was off.

"You had a dream." Not a question.

Angela swallowed and breathed deeply before speaking. "Yes."

"What happened?"

"It was unclear," Angela said. "The worse things are, the less likely that the dreams will be easy to interpret."

"Was it Nathan?" Noah asked more urgently.

"Not directly, if at all. It might be connected to him, but I can't come to any conclusions," said Angela. She almost couldn't get her next words out. It could _not_ happen; even _she_ did not deserve to lose them both. "I saw Peter drowning in blood. My son-"

She broke off. She could not remember the last time she cried, and she barely restrained the tears now. Noah seemed to sense this and gave her a moment of silence before saying he would call again in the morning. Angela thanked him and hung up the phone. He really was the best friend she had. Maybe the only real one.

Angela wiped her nearly-leaking eyes and turned to look at the clock. Eleven fifty-three. Seven minutes to midnight, and little hope of any more sleep for the night. She was about to reach for her book when the phone rang again. Was Noah's issue so pressing that it couldn't wait a few hours?

"Hello?" she said again, frustration showing in her voice only slightly.

"Hey, Mom. It's me."

Angela fought tears for the second time as she heard the grim voice of her younger son. She had to act normal. She had to act like nothing was going to happen. "Peter, why are you calling so late? Shouldn't you be at work?"

"The next shift got in ten minutes early," Peter said. He sounded understandably tired, but there was something else there too. "I need to ask you something."

"Can it wait until morning?" If she couldn't talk to Noah, she certainly couldn't talk to Peter.

"No, Mom, I have to- Did you know about my ability? That I have the same as Dad's, just... unevolved?"

"Yes, I-"

"Why didn't you tell me?!" She had not anticipated anger, only confusion. Before Angela could get a word in edgewise, Peter continued. "All this time- I've had it, and you- you _knew_? And you didn't _tell_ me what I could do?"

"Peter-"

He interrupted her again, but had stopped yelling. "You said that there were things you could have told me when I was growing up, when I was confused. You said you were going to stop hiding things. You - you and Noah said you were going to change! What _can_ I trust you with, Mom?"

_To do what is necessary for the greater good_ was her brain's programmed answer. _Nothing_ was what she felt like saying. Angela said, "I thought it would be better for you to figure it out on your own. Your father said that his journey in developing his ability made him stronger, and I thought that you would appreciate that."

"You thought I wouldn't figure it out. You don't trust me with- after Kirby Plaza, you don't trust me with my own power! You don't think I can handle it!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Peter. I'm your mother. I only want the best for you, and you have so much potential," countered Angela, trying to get the conversation back under her control.

"Except that I can barely get out of my own way, right? I heard what you said to Charles, Mom," Peter said. Bitterness rang in every syllable. What was going on here? She remembered that conversation well, but how could Peter have heard it?

"How did you hear that?" Angela asked.

"A dream. I think Charles sent it to me somehow, after he died. He talked to me," Peter explained.

"He was a very powerful telepath," Angela thought aloud. "But that's impossible, and he hadn't had his powers in so long..."

"Charles lost his powers?"

"Back in 1971. We never found out how. Almost everything was gone, except that he could still communicate through dreams. That's why we recruited Maury Parkman six years later when the Company started," Angela said. "Peter, about your powers, I never meant to-"

"Right. Of course you didn't. I'll talk to you later," Peter said. He hung up. Since when did Peter hang up on her?

Angela lay back on the pillows with his sarcasm ringing in her ears. She could imagine her son- her only _real_ son- being attacked and drowned in the blood of the monster's victims, not powerful enough to stop it.

Odessa, Texas

Sylar sat on his cot- which was really a metal table meant for medical experiments- and let the seconds tick by. This was the longest period of time he had ever been imprisoned. There had been no slip ups and no jail breaks. Of the nine weeks he had been imprisoned, he had been counting the seconds for the last one and a half.

They were messing with his head somehow. He had the vague idea that Angela and Noah were responsible, and there was something about Matt Parkman... but it was too blurry to be sure. His ideas had rarely been _blurry _or _vague_ before.

He dreamed every night, but could never remember what the dreams were. Maybe they were memories, maybe he was talking to somebody. Whenever he woke up, Sylar felt like part of him had floated away during the night. He was the only prisoner who never lost track of the time (and therefore slept at regular intervals) in the always-lit basement of Primatech Paper Company. In fact, he was the only prisoner at all.

This in itself was very strange. Only a little less so than the day he received his first visitor.

He greeted her with, "Aren't you dead?"

Elle Bishop walked up to the glass just like she used to walk back when it made sense for her to be walking. "Maybe," she said, with the same flirtatious air she used to use when it made sense for her to be talking.

"Why are you here?" Sylar said with boredom close to apathy, but was desperate for her to stay. He could bear being alone, but almost three months without a _glimpse_ of another person was a bit too much even for him. He needed something besides cold walls and silent corridors.

She pointed to the little plastic food tray that came out near the glass. It had been empty for Sylar's entire imprisonment. Now it contained a syringe. He walked over and picked it up, noticing the sinister nature of the needle. He looked back up at Elle. "What is this, lethal injection?"

"No, just a sedative," she replied.

"Why should I believe you? I killed you," he said. He examined the syringe again. "This could be a very realistic hallucination."

Elle sighed and rolled her eyes. "You're so paranoid," she said. "This is going to help you, stupid."

"Why would you want to help me?" Sylar asked. "I-"

"Yeah, you killed me. I got that," Elle replied. "I think that makes us about even, don't you? I saved your life, lied to you, and helped turn you into a monster even though I knew what would happen. I killed Gabriel Gray. You killed me. Everything else we forgave each other for, remember?"

"Yes, and I even forgave you for that. Bennet's another story, but I forgave you," Sylar argued.

"You're not the one who can forgive me. Gabriel is, and he's gone forever. It's too bad, because I think I was in love with him," Elle said, then added hurriedly, "Of course, I think I was in love with you too. When I was alive. Why _did _you kill me, anyway?"

This was becoming a very confusing conversation. "I needed to reinvent myself. At Kirby Plaza, I was on top of the world. I thought I needed to be alone to get there again."

"You thought?"

"Now I'm not so sure," Sylar admitted. "Look where I am now. Obviously, it didn't work out. How about you? Why did you lie to me about my parents?"

"I didn't want to lose you." Elle knelt down so that their faces were level. "Let me give you some advice. Take the injection."

"Why?"

There was a pause in which Sylar got the feeling that Elle was holding something back. That was nothing new; it was practically the story of their relationship. All lies and passion and murder... it sounded like the description of a soap opera. How could two people who knew each other for such a short time change each other so much?

Elle placed her palm against the glass, and said, "If you want to live, you need to wake up."

It seemed that that was the least cryptic she was going to get. Slowly, he lifted his hand so it was only separated from hers by the inches of glass. She smiled and let a few blue sparks loose from her fingertips, then stood and turned away. Her footsteps echoed through the ghostly halls of Level 5.

Sylar sighed. He examined the syringe and needle once more, then plunged it into his forearm. Within seconds, everything went black.

_He was looking in the mirror through the eyes of a stranger. No, not a stranger. Nathan Petrelli. What was going on here?_

_Nathan was straightening his red tie. It took expensive, and he looked- not so immaculate as usual, though pretty good for a dead man. Those dark circles under his eyes were hard to ignore, and his skin was so pale that one might ask if the senator was feeling well. At closer inspection, Sylar could see that Nathan's eyes were bloodshot, and his fingers were a bit twitchy as they adjusted the collar of his suit jacket a fraction of an inch. He had obviously not been sleeping._

_Then it clicked. Noah and Angela- and yes, it had to be Matt Parkman. That pathetic man had used his telepathy to turn Sylar's own plan against him. He _was _Nathan Petrelli, and it was becoming increasingly clear that Sylar could not _stop _being Nathan Petrelli. Even now, it was a struggle not to just assimilate, to let himself slip back under. It was difficult, but not impossible._

_With every fiber of his being, Sylar fought to take control of what was rightfully his. Nathan sensed that something was not right, and stood paralyzed for almost two minutes as he felt the monster inside him wrestle for dominance. At last Sylar gained some ground and managed to growl at the impostor, "Let. Me. Out."_

_Nathan backed away from the mirror. His own mouth had temporarily betrayed him, but he seized it back. "No. You're dead."_

_"If I'm really dead, then how are you talking to me?" Sylar pointed out._

_"You're not real." There was real fear in the politician's voice, no more of his stupid, characteristic bravado._

_Sylar laughed. His smirk looked strange on Nathan's face, but it wouldn't be Nathan's face for long. "_You're _the one who's not real. I killed you. Your mother set you up as a shield to keep me from slaughtering the president and all of those so-called heroes."_

_"You're wrong." Oh, so the terror was _temporary_. There was bravery behind the picture-perfect smile and the carefully crafted reputation._

_Nathan had more to say. "I don't know what you did, but you won't take me over. I won't let you hurt anyone else, you psychopath."_

_"You idiot! You're dead!" Sylar shouted. He felt ready to snap. He would _not_ be taken over by this shell. He would not be betrayed by his own mind! "I'm the one who belongs here!"_

_"I am Nathan Petrelli, and I'm ordering you to get out of my mind," said Nathan. He had gathered all his strength so that his voice was only mildly shaking._

_Sylar was furious. He was _ordering _him? That was too much. "LET ME OUT!" Sylar screamed at his false reflection. "Let me out and maybe I'll spare one of your fingers to send to Angela before I rip her to pieces!"_

_Nathan turned and ran. He didn't bother to cancel any appointments or call in sick, he just sprinted up the stairway to the roof and took off. He didn't bother to concentrate on how far he flew after the sonic boom. Eventually the rushing wind cleared Nathan's mind and he hovered just below a large white cloud, breathing hard. A few deep breaths and he felt more calm._

_As if he could escape._

**A.N. **There it is**. Please** express your compliments, criticism, or suggestions in a **review! **_Jail Break, part III _(the last of the trilogy) should be up soon, since it's already half-written. Now click the big green button. :)


	8. Jail Break, part III

**A.N. **Chapter ocho finishes the _Jail Break_ trilogy. Hopefully the first two sections will answer some of your questions. Hm, what else? Oh yeah, **review **when you're done **please! **Luv dem reviews.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own _Heroes _or anything else. This quote is from Lady Macbeth's physician in _Macbeth. _He's talking about her illness brought about by guilt after murder and manipulation. It made me think of Angela, to some extent.

Chapter 8: Jail Break, part III

_"Foul whisp'rings are abroad. Unnatural deeds  
Do breed unnatural troubles. Infected minds to their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.  
More needs she the divine than the physician.  
God, God forgive us all. Look after her;  
Remove from her the means of all annoyance,  
And still keep eyes upon her. So good night.  
My mind she has [defeated], and amazed my sight.  
I think, but dare not speak."_

Northfield, Vermont

24 hours ago

No more guards interrupted Bridget, Kensei, and Crimson Arc as they worked their way down Cell Block A. Prisoners were confused when their doors were melted, and grateful when they found out they were being rescued. Most of the cells toward the end of the block were empty. Kensei told Bridget that when Rebel had first gained access to the prison records there had been more, but they been worn down by captivity and eventually joined Outlook. As it was, Cell Block A only contained about twenty prisoners, not counting the three liberators.

"How are we getting out of here?" Bridget asked.

"We will fight our way out," Kensei informed her.

"What?!"

"Most of the guards are at the break-in at head quarters," Crimson Arc explained.

"I thought this was the head quarters!"

"Yes, but some of the files are only on paper to guard them from hackers and technopaths. They are kept at the other head quarters. It is Outlook's best kept secret," said Kensei.

"Okay," said Bridget. _Deep, calming breaths. Deep, calming breaths._

The group burst into the central room that led to Cell Blocks A, B, and C expecting a fight, but all the guards were already knocked out. Kensei and Crimson Arc looked a little disappointed, but Bridget was relieved. The prisoners from the other two blocks had been led into the room. Put together, they amounted to only a few more people than Cell Block A. About half of the them looked extremely weak, and Bridget remembered what Hanuman had said about Outlook thinking hunger and lack of sleep would induce trances.

An Indian man in his mid-thirties and a slim black woman who was probably in her early twenties approached Kensei and Crimson Arc. The man's shirt had been torn and the woman had the start of a fat lip. Both were sweaty and a little out of breath.

"We need to get out of here now," said the man. His accent identified him as Hanuman.

"One of the guards had time to call for help," explained the woman. She was definitely Saint Joan.

All four of the code-named liberators broke off into silence. Something had obviously come in over their ear-pieces. Bridget was a little disappointed that she couldn't hear it, but after the message was over Crimson Arc informed her that Alien and Claude had made a successful escape from the other head quarters. However, they had only been able to take less than half of the files.

"The vans are just around the corner," said Saint Joan. She turned to the newly-freed prisoners. "Hey! We're gettin' out of here, but everyone needs to cooperate and stay calm. We got vans up on the surface, and there's room for everybody. Cell Block B, follow me!"

Saint Joan began jogging down the hall that led to the exit. Hanuman was less confident. "I don't know if all of my group can make it that far. Some of them haven't eaten in weeks. I had to carry four people out of their cells! Yukiko was one of them," he said.

Bridget searched the weaker looking group and located a tiny Japanese teenager. She couldn't weigh more than one hundred pounds and was barely five feet tall. "I thought you said she was a comic book artist," Bridget said.

"She is," said Crimson Arc. "She won a manga contest and got her work published. That's how we found her."

"We need to focus," said Kensei. Hanuman looked at him oddly. "Crimson Arc, go with Hanuman's group to help those who are too weak."

Crimson Arc nodded, and he and Hanuman led Cell Block C out of the room. After waiting half a minute, Kensei and Bridget's group followed.

The trip out was uneventful for Cell Block A, but Bridget spotted Hanuman and Crimson Arc carrying some people toward the end. It seemed like days before they reached the surface. Sun had never felt so good. Four black vans waited for the escapees. Saint Joan, Hanuman, and Crimson Arc were already helping people into the back of them. A fifth van skidded to a stop directly in front of Bridget. To her astonishment, it was driven by a boy who was way too young to have his learner's permit, much less a license. It had to be Rebel.

He jumped out the van and spoke to Kensei. "We need to hurry."

Kensei only nodded. Before Bridget could do anything to help, all five vans were filled up with super-powered men and women. Saint Joan ran over and took the wheel of Rebel's van. "I don't know when you learned to drive, but don't do it anymore 'til you're fifteen," she told him.

"My computer's in there!" Rebel protested.

Saint Joan reluctantly got out of the vehicle. "Fine. But she's driving, not you."

Bridget noticed that the Saint Joan was pointing at her. "Um, sure?"

In a matter of seconds she was in the driver's seat with Rebel next to her. "I'll tell you where to go," he said. "We're all driving different routes."

Sure enough, Crimson Arc, Kensei, Hanuman, and Saint Joan had all taken their vans in separate directions. Bridget nodded, and started taking orders from a twelve-year-old.

South Barre, Vermont

Now

"All clear," Rebel announced after one of his half-hourly security checks. In all forty-eight of them, there had only been three close calls. The Liberators, as Saint Joan had told Bridget the group was called, ran a pretty good operation. All the non-American prisoners, including Yukiko, had been sent home. Those who wanted them had had GPS trackers injected into their arms for their own protection. Everyone had eaten, most had slept, and the precogs looked healthier already. The majority of the Americans were leaving within the hour.

The only downside to the situation was that Bridget still hadn't had her questions answered. All the Liberators had been extremely tense and focused on their work, and the prisoners were of the opinion that Bridget was one of the heroes. They thanked her, then left her alone like she had a contagious disease.

Bridget was reminded of her first Christmas with her stepfather's huge extended family. To them, she was just the child of Richard's fourth wife. No blood ties meant no need for attachments that wouldn't last anyway. Peace on earth and good will toward _men_, not red-headed stepchildren. In the floodlit warehouse the estrangement was kinder, but just as boring and awkward.

At last Hanuman appeared to be unoccupied and she grasped the opportunity to find out more about what was going on.

Trying not to walk over too quickly, Bridget approached Hanuman. She couldn't shake the feeling that she had seen him somewhere before. "Hi," she said.

"Hello," he replied.

Suddenly she remembered. "You were at Building 26!" Bridget exclaimed.

"Yes, I was. You were one of the prisoners?" Hanuman asked.

"Yeah. Were the Liberators the ones who freed everybody there, or was it just you?"

"Ah, no. I was a prisoner as well, but because I know Kensei and Crimson Arc, they woke me first and I was able to help. The Liberators formed fairly recently," explained Hanuman. He hesitated for a moment then added, "You can call me Mohinder. Rebel is going to try to recruit you later, so you might as well know our real names."

Bridget was unsure how to react to this. On one hand, she had this power. She felt that she should use it, and the team wanted her. On the other hand, she designed virus protection software and read computer manuals in her spare time. She wasn't much of an action hero, even if she hadn't freaked out during the rescue. And why would the team want to recruit her? They didn't even know her, really. Bridget resolved to ask them later, when the group was together.

Mohinder smiled. "Don't worry," he reassured her. "You'll have time to think. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to join at first either."

"Why did you?"

"I was looking for redemption," Mohinder answered. He looked more solemn now. "I did some things I am not proud of in the name of science, and I want to make up for them. That's why I chose the alias 'Hanuman.' When I was a child, my grandmother used to tell me stories of the Hindu gods. Hanuman was always a defender of the weak, a selfless protector. Even though I don't believe in him, he is something to aspire to. But you probably didn't want to hear all that."

"No, that's amazing," Bridget said. "I mean- you're a real hero now, whatever you did before. Why did the other members join, if you don't mind me asking? And they don't mind you telling," she hurriedly added.

"You might as well know. Claude's the most paranoid of us, and he seems to like you."

"I never met Claude," said Bridget in confusion. She had seen the bearded British man once handing out food, but since then he had disappeared. With Outlook searching for them and the warehouse not being all that large, Bridget didn't see where he could have gone.

Mohinder nodded, as if his statement still made perfect sense. Rather than pursue the subject further, Bridget asked, "So... the other members?"

"Micah- that's Rebel- is the one who started the team. You probably gathered that he's a technopath?" After Bridget's confirmation, Mohinder continued, "He's an incredible boy. He repeatedly hacked into the Building 26 computer system, freed prisoners, and warned people with abilities that they were being hunted. When it was over, he and his cousin Monica, or Saint Joan, went back home and continued their lives. Did you hear about all the unexplained drownings?"

"Yeah, I read about them," Bridget said. Then it dawned on her. "Wait- was that one of us?"

"It was Tracy Strauss, Micah's aunt. He found out it was her after the second murder. He contacted her and she told him about Outlook. She had allied herself with them as a means of getting revenge. Micah was devastated, especially after he found out more about Outlook.

"Meanwhile, Hiro and Ando- that's Kensei and Crimson Arc- were in Japan, fighting crime in their spare time, much like Monica and Micah. Hiro and Ando had found a future painter, who was helping them. That was Yukiko, obviously. When she was kidnapped, they contacted Rebel to see if he knew anything. When they found out more about Outlook, they wanted to help him take them down.

"They wanted a bigger team because of Outlook's size and the scale of their operation. That was when they called Claude, West (that's Alien), and I. They also tried to recruit a telepath we know, but he didn't want any part of it," Mohinder said. Bridget wanted to ask if the telepath was a friend of his or something. Mohinder's expression fell when he mentioned him, though. It really wasn't any of her business, Bridget concluded. She reminded herself that she did not know these people.

"After training together and a lot of planning, here we are," said Mohinder, gesturing at the warehouse around them.

"And your goal is to take down Outlook?" Bridget asked, just to confirm.

"Yes. People like us have been disappearing off the streets for too long."

Before Bridget could ask exactly what Mohinder meant, Micah waved them over. The rest of the team was gathered around one of the several over-sized monitors in the building. Bridget jumped about a foot in the air when Claude appeared next to her out of thin air.

"Alright, the jail break was successful, but it'll take a lot more to bring down Outlook," Rebel began. He looked too serious for his age. "We're a good team, but we need backup. I want to bring in Bennet."

"When you recruited me, my only condition was that you take my word on Company members, and Bennet is the last one I want involved!" Claude said. "You may have the talent, but compared to me you're still a wet-behind-the-ears pup, an upstart! If Bennet's in, then I'm out!"

"I was just going to pass on our information," Micah argued. "It would just be from Rebel, no one else would have to be involved. Outlook's a dangerous organization, and we need all the help we can get."

"We do not need backup. This team can defeat Outlook by itself," said Hiro. Ando nodded in agreement.

"I think we should get Bennet and the Company in on this," Monica said. "I know they've done some pretty bad stuff, but this is a new group, remember?"

"A new group whose public face is a traitor to his own kind," Claude countered.

Monica pressed on. "Even the old Company did some good things. They helped me understand my power more and-"

"And then wanted me to inject you with a possibly incurable strain of the virus," interrupted Mohinder. "Their motives were morally gray at best, and Bennet is a perfect example of that. We can't trust them."

"They helped take down Building 26," West argued. "Maybe this new Company has a new goal. Maybe they're not about locking people up, and they want to help. And how can you judge Bennet for being 'morally gray'? You're the one who shot him in the eye!"

"What I don't get is why you brought him back to life," Claude muttered.

"You don't understand. Something happened that night at the Stanton Hotel when they killed Sylar. There's a reason Matt doesn't want to be involved anymore," Mohinder said.

"He said he wanted to take care of his son," pointed out Ando.

"It doesn't matter anyway," said Micah.

"And why is that?" asked Claude.

"I already contacted Bennet." Micah managed to calm the sudden storm of protest. "I didn't mention any of you, like I said before. Turns out they've been investigating Outlook too, and they've got the perfect agent to get on the inside."

"Who?" said at least three people.

"Peter Petrelli."

Claude laughed. "Peter? The human sponge? Are we talking about the same Peter Petrelli who almost blew up New York?"

"Yeah, the same Peter Petrelli who's now a shape-shifter," said Micah.

Mohinder nodded. "It could work. If he can get close enough to Outlook's leader to kill him-"

"The whole organization would go down," Bridget finished. The Liberators all looked as though they had forgotten she was there. "I mean, they're all so devoted to him, they would just fall apart if anything happened to him. I think."

"Alright. We'll let Bennet try his way, as long as there's no contact," said Claude.

"Agreed," said Micah.

"I want to help," Bridget said.

"We know," West replied.

"You have shown the beginnings of the strength of a warrior," Hiro added. "If you want to use your powers for good, we will not stop you from training with us."

"I think you scared her off when you said 'warrior'," joked Monica.

"I'll recover," said Bridget, smiling.

Washington, D.C.

1 hour and 53 minutes ago

The computer hadn't been on when he left, Noah Bennet noticed. He knew what that meant. _Finally, _he thought.

Sure enough, a message began to type itself across the black screen:

THIS IS REBEL.

Noah quickly pulled up a chair and typed back: _I know._

FILES ARE DOWNLOADING ABOUT THE ORGANIZATION KNOWN AS OUTLOOK.

_I'm familiar with that name, but don't know much about them._

ARE YOU INVESTIGATING THEM?

_Yes._

YOU WILL NEED AN INSIDE MAN. IMPOSSIBLE TO GET TO BOSS THROUGH COMPUTERS.

Noah smiled. That had been his plan in the first place. He replied: _Peter Petrelli is a shapeshifter._

There was a pause. Noah wondered -not for the first time- who Rebel was, and what he knew about Peter.

THAT WILL WORK. I'LL BE CHECKING HIS PROGRESS THROUGH THE COMPANY NETWORK.

_Good to have you back._

I NEVER LEFT.

The computer switched itself off. Noah took out his cell phone and pressed speed dial 2: Angela Petrelli. Just that morning they had discussed his uneasiness about Nathan and Claire spending time together, which Angela had dismissed as ridiculous paranoia. That didn't stop Noah from worrying.

"Hello?"

"Angela, we've got a definite lead on Outlook," Noah said. "Rebel just downloaded all his files on them into my computer. He says all we need is an inside man."

"If you want to involve Peter, I'm not going to stop you," Angela said.

Noah was a bit surprised by this response. After her dream, he had expected a fight. "Are you sure?"

"It's his decision, of course. He's an adult; he doesn't need his mother's approval."

"You know what I mean. I could find another way in," Noah insisted.

"That would take too long. We need to pull Outlook out by the roots while we still can," Angela said. This was her Company voice: calculating, practical, experienced, and always one step ahead of you. "I'm going to visit Samson Gray."

"Why would you do that?"

"Something about those files is affecting Peter. I spoke to Claire, and she agrees. Samson helped put them together; he knows what they were meant to be used for."

"That doesn't explain why you need to see him. If the files aren't purely academic, they probably state their own purpose," Noah said. "Why do you _really _want to go?"

Angela sighed. "Samson and I are the last of our kind. He wasn't a founder, and we only knew him for a short time, but he affected our lives almost as much as Adam. This isn't the whim of an old woman; I need to see him. Besides, doesn't a woman have the right to know what her husband was doing behind her back?"

"You're not going alone."

"Noah, you can't come with me. I can take care of myself."

"Just take someone with you," Noah said. He remembered the agents they had sent to Samson's house in New Jersey. He remembered unzipping their bodybags. _You said he lost his powers_, Danko had said accusingly.

Angela consented as if she was consoling an impractical child. "I'll bring Nathan."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Noah asked.

"If anything, it'll tell us if we need Parkman to come patch up," she replied dismissively. "It's Peter I'm worried about right now. Goodbye, Noah. Good luck with your operation."

"I'll give you any updates on the situation."

"I trust you." It meant more coming from Angela than from anyone else, but Noah didn't have to tell her that.

"Goodbye." He hung up. They were journeying into new territory. Despite years of experience, the unknown seemed to grow darker ever day. Maybe Angela was right, and it was paranoia. Hopefully.

**A.N. **So no Syathan/Natelar appearances this chapter. I am sorry, but that's the way the cookie crumbled. He will be back with a special guest *cough Samson cough* next chapter! I hoped you enjoyed this installment of _Duality of Being_.

**Please review **with compliments, criticism, and suggestions. You know you want to. :)


	9. Deathbed

**A.N. **Okay! Here's chapter 9 after much, much writing. It is by far (and I mean _by faaaaar_) the longest installment this fic has ever had/ will ever have. It was just impossible to split into parts. But Natelar's back! And Samson! And flashbacks! So hopefully that makes up for the length. Please, please, **please review** this chapter. If you had to pick one chapter out of this entire story to review, this would be it.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own anything still. Darn. Anyways, this chapter takes a break from the classics to bring you _Deathbed_ by Relient K. The lyrics are throughout the chapter, and while some years and ages don't correspond with Samson's (or any character's) life, I thought it worked. There's kind of a _Company Man_-esque set up (not that I'm claiming to be even close to Bryan Fuller here.)

Chapter 9: Deathbed

_I can smell the death on the sheets  
Covering me  
I can't believe this is the end_

_But this is my deathbed  
I lie here alone  
If I close my eyes tonight  
I know I'll be home_

Washington, D.C.

Nathan Petrelli knew what he was. He knew why he had conjured up the excuse of a meeting when Angela had called, and suggested she take Claire along instead. He knew why Peter wouldn't return his calls and Noah treated him with barely concealed spite.

He remembered flying a nuclear bomb out of New York, racing to stop a deadly virus, and confronting a serial killer who could rip his head off by lifting a finger. Somehow, none of those things changed anything that hid beneath the picture-perfect smile, the publicly applauded rehabilitation, and the confident speeches. The cold ooze slipping through his body to make his handshake less firm and his eyes not want to close and his muscles never want to relax for fear of being taking over told him this:

Nathan Petrelli was a coward.

He feared his own mind, and he feared that going to see Samson Gray would cause it to mutiny. He feared that the invisible monster would never let go.

_The year was nineteen forty one  
I was eight years old and  
Far far too young  
To know that the stories  
Of battles and glory  
Was a tale a kind mother  
Made up for her son_

Miles from Bolivar, Tennessee

The red trailer looked like it was in good condition only at first glance. There was chopped firewood outside, but most of it was old and infested with termites. The door had rusty hinges and the car had scratched paint. A large portion of the roof had clearly caved in some time ago. The repairs had ceased almost as soon as they had started, and the hole was covered only by a few boards and several tarps.

Angela wasn't sure what she had expected. The pictures she had seen of the house in Newark showed that it was more well kept, at least on the outside. Samson had been living in this trailer for about three months, but there was no sign of any effort to make it a comfortable permanent residence.

"Are you sure this is it?" Claire asked, getting out of the car after her grandmother. Noah had allowed Angela to bring his daughter only after Angela had insisted that it was better than bringing Peter, Nathan had been a bad idea in retrospect, and Claire was indestructible anyway. The matter was settled after a little over an hour on the phone.

"I'm sure," said Angela. The location of Samson's trailer had been in the files that Rebel had sent to Noah. Outlook had recruited Luke Campbell shortly after his visit to the mansion, and had extorted the information from him. Whether Samson had been approached or not was unknown, and was presumably in those paper files that Rebel had not been able to steal.

The door of the trailer was ajar, and Claire and Angela cautiously walked into the unlit front room. It must have been fairly nice at one point, but now it was just further evidence of decay. The faded wallpaper and moldy curtains looked like they could have been expensive, but it was hard to tell with all the light-bulbs burned out. Chipped mugs and dog-eared books lay on the kitchen counter and table, as well as on a bar stool near an armchair.

One undeniable feature of the room - and the workshop beyond that, and undoubtedly the whole place- was death. Stuffed and half-stuffed animals were both thrown thoughtlessly and carefully positioned wherever the women looked. Claire shivered, but Angela purposefully crossed the room and knocked on the glass door. Just as she did so, the front door opened behind her.

The man who entered the trailer was Samson Gray; there was no questioning that. But as Angela took in the portable oxygen talk; the hands caked with ash and dirt; the thick, stained jacket; the discolored face with the yellowed tubes in the nose... this was not the same Samson Gray she had met forty-three years ago.

Samson didn't look surprised. Angela surmised that he must have been around back and had seen their car as he was walking to the front door. The older man merely accepted they were there. "More visitors," he said, with more jaded curiosity than anger.

It wasn't until after he lit a cigarette, inhaled, and let out a short cough that he really looked at them. _Now _he was surprised, though he hid it perfectly. "Angela Petrelli. Never thought I'd see you again."

"I could say the same," Angela replied coldly.

"Who's this?" he asked, nodding at Claire.

"My granddaughter, Claire," Angela said. She noted that Claire showed no fear, even though she knew what Samson was. Of course, Angela had only told her a rough outline of what had gone on between the killer and the not-yet-Company.

"Huh. Makes you realize how old we are, doesn't it?" Samson said. The question was rhetorical, and after a few more coughs he asked, "You're Nathan's, then?"

Before Claire could answer, Angela said, "Why did Arthur tell you about our children?"

"Ah, so that's why you're here," Samson said, taking another drag from his cigarette. "Arthur's dead. Well, sit down. I'm sure this is going to take a while."

Franklin, New Jersey

1956

_You see  
Dad was a traveling preacher  
Teaching the words of the Teacher  
But mother had sworn  
He went off to the war  
And died there with honor  
Somewhere on a beach there_

"Mom?"

Doris Gray finished wiping off the counter and turned to face her oldest son, Samson. He was sitting at the kitchen table, staring up at her while his brother and sister concentrated on their cereal. They all knew what his question was.

"Is Dad going to get out of bed today?" he finished. Even though he was only fourteen, that hopeful look was the only child-like quality he still possessed.

Doris sighed. "I don't know, honey. Probably not."

Martin looked at his brother for a reaction, but Samson just returned to his cereal. After a moment, Martin did the same. The two brothers were a barely a year apart, but Martin looked up to Samson as if he knew all the secrets of the universe. Six year old Linda followed both of them around with the same admiration when they allowed her to.

Doris knew her children had this type of relationship mostly because of Robert, their father. He had been sent off to the war almost immediately after Martin was born. One of his friends had somehow secured him a position as a chaplain, though Robert went to mass a grand total of twice per year. For years after he returned it seemed like the war hadn't affected his mind like it had so many others.

Robert had loved all his children, but Samson had been his obvious favorite. The two had gone hunting almost every weekend. Martin had no stomach for the sport and was left at home with Doris and Linda, but he didn't really mind. The Grays had been a happy family, envied by their less functional neighbors.

Until the fourth of July two years ago, when everything went wrong. The whole family was going to walk into town to see the parade and the modest fireworks show. The boys discussed what type of firecrackers they would buy with their allowance while Robert carried Linda on his shoulders.

"Let me down!" the tiny girl had giggled. "I wanna walk!"

Robert swung the ecstatic Linda to the ground, where she caught up to her brothers as fast as her short legs could carry her. Doris turned her head to smile at her husband. What she saw quickly darkened her expression.

The children stopped in their tracks as their father began to shake violently. Robert Gray fell to the ground and tore at the dirt, oblivious to his shocked family.

"Rob? Robert?!" Doris shouted, dropping to the ground. She whirled to face her children. "Samson, Martin, take your sister home!"

Martin almost protested. He consented when he saw Linda's tears. Samson did no such thing. He stood and stared, ignoring his mother's increasingly panicked orders.

"Dad? Dad, what's wrong?"

"They- they- they-" Robert stammered. He gulped, and started rubbing the dirt into his cheeks and hair. "Messages- They speak- I can't. I can't- the missing p-p-section, I can't-"

He passed out. Doris moaned, "Oh, _God_..."

Samson kept staring. After ten minutes of this, Doris and her son carried Robert home. He had remained in what had been the master bedroom since then, as much for his own safety as for everyone else's.

But today, Doris reminded herself, that would all change. Robert would get the help he deserved and the Gray family would be freed from his shadow. They would be happy again after everything settled.

The knock came as the children were drying their bowls. Linda eagerly went to answer it, but Doris stopped her. She opened the door to the men who really did wear white coats.

"This is the home of invalid Gray, Robert?" inquired a rail-thin man with a mustache.

"Yes, but you'll have to go get him. He's in that room," Doris explained, pointing down the short hallway. "He hasn't been out in a while, and it might be difficult-"

"We're used to this kind of situation, ma'am," said the second man. Both doctors -or whatever they were- had already started toward the room. In about a minute they emerged with the limp body of Robert Gray.

"Hey! What's going on? What did you do to my dad?" Samson yelled.

"Relax, son," said the man with the mustache. "It's only a light sedative for transportation."

Doris positioned herself in front of him, blocking him from getting at the men in white coats. "Samson, these men are doctors. They're going to help him-"

"No! They can't! They can't take him away!" Samson tried to run at the men, but Doris blocked him.

"Samson-"

That was all she could get out. Before she had time to react, her firstborn son shoved her out of the way and took off out the door. Martin and Linda followed. Martin looked shell-shocked; Linda was just confused. By the time Doris caught up with them, the men from what had to be called the asylum had driven away.

Suddenly, as if the universe was responding to the mood, darkness began to fall over the remaining Grays. Doris and Martin looked up to see the beginning of a solar eclipse; Samson kept his eyes on the ground.

Maybe this was what it took to jar Linda's understanding. "Is Daddy leaving forever?" she asked no one in particular.

Samson muttered, "If Mom has anything to say about it."

Linda's mouth dropped open silently for a moment. Then she began to wail. No tears; just a sound of unadulterated grief.

The mailbox and the car lifted up into the air and hovered.

_But he left once to never return  
Which taught me that I should unlearn  
Whatever I thought a father should be  
I abandoned that thought  
Like he abandoned me_

Miles from Bolivar, Tennessee

"I told Luke not to give it to you," Samson said. "What'd you do, bribe him?"

"Yeah," Claire said. "Why are those files so important anyway?"

Samson looked at both women. "You haven't read them, have you?"

"No," Angela admitted. "My son took them almost as soon as we got them."

"Which one?" Samson asked, restraining a cough.

"How much do you know about my family?" There was fear behind that question. Decades-old fear was combining with maternal instinct and Angela was ashamed. When she had met this man before she had been barely more than a child. Nearly everything had changed since then, so why should this irrational feeling remain in any quantity?

"What does it matter? Do I look like I'm going to go out on some vendetta?" This statement was emphasized by the longest coughing fit Angela and Claire had witnessed. "I know what Arthur told me."

"Then I suppose the real question is why Arthur would be telling you anything."

"Ah, you want the purpose of the files. Some world domination scheme, is that what you were expecting?" Samson said. He put out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray, then lit another. "They were academic."

"_Academic_?" said Claire incredulously. "You two lied to everyone and wrote all that stuff for _study?_"

Samson half-laughed, half-coughed. "She really is your granddaughter. That's how she used to be," he said, speaking to Claire. "You know I met Angela when she was about your age? Of course, that was before the lying and manipulation really kicked in."

"Are you trying to judge me?" Angela asked. Her tone had lost the frigid quality, but this certainly didn't mean anything good.

"Judge you? No, it's a fact. You know as well as I do that you all started off heroes and went downhill from there."

"While you only improved."

"I didn't say _that._ If there's anything I know for sure, it's what I did wrong," Samson retorted. "I didn't have any strategy at the beginning. I was just taking powers when I could and picking fights when I felt like it."

"You don't regret it, what you did?" Claire asked. Her tone said _Even a little?_

"You mean the killing? If I could do it all over again, I would. In fact," Samson said. "I almost did have a second chance. My son came over to kill me a few months ago, but ended up letting me live. Not that it's worth anything-" he broke off to cough, "when he had the only thing that could save me."

"What was that?" Claire inquired. Angela tensed. This was dangerous territory; Claire knew as well as she did what miraculous cure Sylar had. If she wanted to hear the story and live to remember it, Claire needed to know when to keep her mouth shut.

"Regeneration. Something he 'picked up from a cheerleader in California', he said. He was baiting me; trying to see what I was still capable of. I didn't see it until after." There was a trace of frustration in the last sentence.

"He's dead."

"What's that?"

"Your son. He's dead now," said Claire. Angela studied her face. The expression was... undecided.

"Is he now?" said Samson. "And he gave you my location first, or was that Luke?"

"Neither," Angela answered. "Is the name Outlook familiar to you?"

Franklin, New Jersey

1956

_By forty seven I was fourteen  
I'd acquired a taste for liquor and nicotine  
I smoked until I threw up  
Yet I still lit 'em up for thirty more years  
Like a machine_

"Put that out."

"But _Mom-_"

"I said put that _out._ Just because Samson smokes doesn't mean you have to. It's a disgusting habit," Doris said, snatching the cigarette butt out of Martin's mouth. "You could at least wait until you can buy real cigarettes."

Martin didn't protest further. He had mellowed out over the past six months to counter Samson's becoming more and more rebellious. After several discussions-turned-fights, Doris had come to realize that Samson might never forgive her for sending Robert away. There was nothing she could do about him, except be thankful that he hadn't influenced Linda against her. Samson had become increasingly attached to Linda and had begun ignoring Martin. Still, his little brother idolized him.

"Speaking of which, could you go get Linda and Samson from the woods? Dinner will be done in about five minutes."

"Okay," Martin said.

He heard his mother call, "And try not to scratch your glasses!" as he ran out the door.

About ten feet into the trees Martin slowed to a walk. He didn't want Samson to yell at him for scaring the birds again. Not that he saw what was so great about some dumb birds anyway. He did see what was so great about Linda -it was the new family secret that she could move things with her mind somehow- but she was still their little sister. Samson didn't have to act like she was the ninth wonder of the world or something.

As Martin neared the place where he thought his brother and sister would be, he heard a noise. It wasn't a normal woods-noise, like footsteps or birds or laughter. It was... breathing. Loud, haggard, breathing. Like his father during some of his episodes.

Martin ran toward the sound while his heart beat louder than a bass drum. "Sam-"

He stopped. Were there words for this?

Samson was on his knees, breathing wrong, half-crying. Looking almost like some of the drunks who would sometimes sit behind the grocery store in town. Linda was on her back, eyes wide... head cut open, brain gone, blood _everywhere_-

Martin threw up in the bushes. Then he looked back and noticed that Samson's arms were covered in blood up to the elbow and Samson's pocketknife...

"You killed her," Martin whispered. The words had to be forced out, but once they had been said- "_You kil_-"

"Shut up!" Samson yelled. Martin had no choice. His mouth had been shut for him by an invisible force.

"Don't shout," Samson continued. "This is what we're gonna do: I'll sneak back and wash at the pump in the backyard. Then we'll both run up to the house and say- and say two guys came up and grabbed me and killed Linda. When they heard someone coming, they let me go and ran. Got that?"

Martin's mouth was released. "You- you killed her! Why did you kill Linda?!"

"I said shut _up_! You don't need to know anything, and if you tell Mom what you saw I'll kill you too!" Samson's voice faltered on the last part, so he said it again. "I'll kill you! I swear I will if you tell Mom!"

Doris wept every night for months, and the police never found the Linda's killer. When life regained some semblance of normality, Doris noticed that Martin didn't idolize his brother any more. She thought he must have grown out of it.

As for Samson, he shrank into himself and left home on his eighteenth birthday.

_So right there you have it  
That one filthy habit  
Is what got me where I am today_

Miles from Bolivar, Tennessee

"Outlook... they sent some people by last week," Samson said. "They didn't seem like they were a Company branch, which was what I thought at first. Then I found out they were recruiters."

Angela waited for the harsh coughing to stop before she spoke. "I was under the impression that they took people who refused them prisoner."

"They do, normally. At least that's what their leader said."

"Their leader?" Claire prompted.

"Head of the squad. A young, black guy calling himself CL. Probably a nickname from his breathing chlorine gas," said Samson.

"And they didn't take you prisoner?" said Angela.

"At first they weren't sure, because of the cancer," Samson said, gesturing at the breathing tubes with his cigarette. "But they decided to take me back anyway, so I had to scare 'em off."

"I see," replied Angela. She watched the decaying man across from her inhale toxins from his cigarette. "I wouldn't have thought that smoking would be the addiction to finish you off."

Samson started coughing harder than before, and quickly grabbed his oxygen mask. It took almost a minute for him to get his breathing under control. "It isn't, not really," he said.

_I can smell the death on the sheets  
Covering me  
I can't believe this is the end  
I can hear those sad memories  
Still haunting me  
So many things  
I'd do again_

_But this is my deathbed  
I lie here alone  
If I close my eyes tonight  
I know I'll be home_

"What do you mean?" Claire asked. "If you didn't have lung cancer, you wouldn't be dying right now."

Samson leaned back in his aged armchair. "I've been dying for over fifty years. The only difference now is that I can see it when I look in the mirror."

"To get back to the reason we came," said Angela. "When did you and Arthur start compiling the Athenian Files?"

"I got a question for you first. How did Arthur die?" Samson asked, casually pointing a somewhat accusing finger at her.

"I poisoned him-"

Samson let out a bark of a laugh. "Hell hath no fury. Please, continue."

"But we didn't get a chance to cremate the body, so one of his -for lack of a better word- henchmen saved him. Everyone thought he was dead for about a year until he took Adam Monroe's power-"

"Some people have all the luck."

"And restarted Pinehearst. He was killed permanently almost six months ago," Angela finished. "Now I would appreciate an answer."

Samson lit yet another cigarette. "You don't want an answer. You want the story."

Lexington, Tennessee

1976

_Got married on my twenty first  
Eight months before my wife would give birth  
It's easier to be sure you love someone  
When her father inquires with the barrel of a gun_

Samson noticed him almost immediately and became irritated just as fast. Luckily Stella wasn't looking when his expression faltered. She was extremely observant, which was usually one of the qualities Samson loved about her.

When he told her that an old friend was across the street, Stella told him to go; she would wait in the car. She would probably grill him about it later, but it wouldn't be a problem. Samson had several ready explanations for Arthur.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" Arthur demanded as soon as Samson got close enough.

"You know what I'm doing. I told you in the message that I was getting married," Samson said.

"You also told me you're quitting. You used the phrase _going cold turkey_," Arthur said. "You honestly think getting _married_ will help you do that?"

"Oh, I get it," Samson said, not really getting anything but wanting to egg Arthur on. "You're jealous. Just because you think Angela's cheating on you with that Japanese guy. Personally, I think Adam is a more obvious choice, but-"

"Shut up, Samson. You clearly don't understand. If you go cold turkey, if and _when _you slip up, you'll be sloppy. If anyone gets a hold of those files in a search, I'll go down with you. Adam's deadline for the official Company to start is the beginning of next year, and I can't afford to lose face," said Arthur, urgency slipping into his voice.

"Ah, it's for _Adam_ that you don't want me to get married."

"You know it's not going to last. She's twenty seven and has no powers, you're thirty three and have ten, last time I checked. Besides that, you'll end up killing her, like that girl in Vegas."

"So you want me to divorce her right now?"

The look on Arthur's face revealed that he hadn't known the ceremony already taken place. "Let's be honest here. You only married Stella because she's pregnant, and you've got a sense of chivalry packed away somewhere."

"Arthur."

"What?"

"There's no real danger of anyone finding the files, and we have Linderman for backup. You're overreacting," Samson said. He glanced back at the car where his new bride was waiting, then returned his attention to Arthur. "I'm tired. I did something wrong back then. Maybe it was the files, maybe I wasn't aiming big enough. I don't know. But I'm going to try to settle down with my wife, and my kid, and my business. Besides," he said, cracking an smile, "I've got another addiction to fall back on. Smoking always helps keep it off for a while."

Arthur quietly examined his former partner. He doubted the younger man could change, but why not let him try? Maybe it would be another addition to the Athenian Files, three years after they had been closed. If anyone would suffer, it would be Stella.

Samson, in the middle of opening the car door, called back: "And you and Angela have a bigger age gap!"

Arthur almost smiled.

Miles from Bolivar, Tennessee

"I guess the beginning would be when I first ran into your Company," said Samson, directing his story toward Angela. "Even though it wasn't really the Company back then. Who was it; just you, Arthur, Charles, and Linderman?"

"And Bob," said Angela.

"Right, right. I ran into Linderman once, mostly by accident. Then you went and sought me out- how old were you, eighteen?"

"Nineteen," Angela corrected. "You weren't much older."

"True. But I remember thinking you acted like a kid," Samson said. He gave a laugh so short it didn't have time to turn into a cough. "You completely swallowed everything I said! _The Hunger_... like I was a zombie ready to eat your brain!"

"So far what I've seen of your power hasn't shown me any different," said Angela, somewhat uncomfortably. She was not used to being laughed at, especially for ignorance.

"Except the brain-eating thing," Claire added. She avoided her grandmother's disapproving look.

Samson inhaled deeply from his oxygen mask. He said, "Let me explain it to you. It's more like... Adam and Eve."

"Adam and Eve?" Claire echoed with disbelief.

"You know, the fruit of knowledge of good and evil? Let's say all of mankind is affected by eating that forbidden fruit, right from the moment they're born. Now some people- some rare people- are born different. And there's another fruit that'll show them a whole other side of life. To get the whole effect, to understand _everything_, they have to kill someone, take an ability. Well, once they do that, they can never go back, not really. All they can do is keep going," Samson said. "It's not just an impulse, it's a decision. Once the decision is made... then it's an addiction."

Camden, Tennessee

1980

_The union was far from harmonious  
No two people could have been more alone than us  
The years would go by and she'd love someone else  
And I realized I hadn't been loved yet myself_

"I only expected a phone call," said Samson by way of greeting.

"I was in the neighborhood," replied Arthur. He pointedly looked around at his extremely generic surroundings. "At least you got to keep the motorcycle."

"Sorry it's not the great Petrelli Mansion," Samson said. "So what do you have to say?"

"Don't do it."

"I made up my mind long before I told you."

"Really, Samson. You're making a mistake."

"Oh, so you're a family man now, is that it? In your time off from keeping mobsters out of jail and stealing your friends' abilities- how is Charles, by the way?"

Arthur ignored the sarcastic question. "You don't want to sell your son."

"You experimented on yours. At least on the one who showed up negative on the CAT scan," Samson countered.

"Samson-"

"You were right, is that what you want to hear? You were right. It didn't work out. She had an affair with her boss last winter, and Gabriel-" Samson faltered, but only momentarily. "Sure, he's my son. I love him, but I can't have him around. It's not like he'll remember me anyway, if I get rid of him this young."

The two men stood in silence for a few moments, then Arthur spoke up. "She was sleeping with Kaito, not Adam."

"Lucky guess."

"But we're fine now. She told me eventually, and it's over. We're back to the way things were."

"Stella didn't tell me. I had to spy on her," Samson admitted. "And who are you to be giving me marriage advice? I told you I made my decision. She's as good as dead, and it's not like I have telepathy to smooth it all over."

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the noise of the garage door. He noticed that Samson's stress lines were more obvious when he was distracted. "I'll go," Arthur said.

"You do that."

Miles from Bolivar, Tennessee

"So basically you and Arthur fought, and you both almost died?" Claire asked. When Angela and Samson tried telling their very fixed and opposing views of the story at the same time, needless to say it was a little confusing.

Both nodded. "But what I want to know is what happened after that," Angela said.

"I was getting to it," Samson said. "It almost a year for me to recover, and some of my powers had stopped working during that time. I ran into Arthur in sixty six, when we were both looking for the same ability. Can't remember what it was, but Arthur thought he needed it for some... project or other. Anyway, I got there first. "

"And he walked in on you," Claire concluded. She tried to banish the image from her mind that was probably all too accurate.

"Exactly," Samson confirmed. "So he, being the big hero back then, wanted a fight. I told him to wait; maybe we could be of some use to each other. We were both after power, and we both had complicated core abilities. Arthur saw the appeal, and we started 'researching' together. It only took a few months for him to stop tricking himself and see that he wasn't really the superman he thought he was.

"Linderman found out- what was it, four years later? - when we were hunting a group in Vegas. I know you probably think, Angela, that he didn't start building his mob empire until the late seventies. You're a decade off. Anyway, we kept each others' secrets. It wasn't too hard when Arthur already had Linderman under his thumb. Charles Deveaux was the real problem."

"Charles knew?" Angela said in disbelief.

"Well, not for long. He had his suspicions, and he confronted Arthur to see what he would say. Of course, Arthur lied and said he was just looking for a way he could get out without getting killed. Charles gave him a timeframe to quit before he told everybody," Samson said. He paused to cough. "Arthur didn't know what to do, so he called me. I had this theory that Arthur could steal people's abilities, not just borrow them. Turned out I was right."

"So he took Charles' ability and erased his memory," said Angela.

"Not completely," said Samson. "He could still do dreams, or something like that."

Angela nodded. "Arthur hid that he had telepathy for years. He said he took it from a total stranger. I should have known."

Samson put out the remains of his cigarette. "We quit two years later, but we stayed in contact for eleven years, god knows why. I kept the files. I was supposed to give them to Arthur when I was dying, or Linderman if Arthur was already dead. I almost forgot about them, actually."

Newark, New Jersey

2001

_From there it's your typical spiel  
Yeah if life was a highway  
I was drunk at the wheel  
I was helping the loose ends  
All fall apart  
Yeah I swear I was destined to fail  
And fail from the start_

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Gray. However, if we start chemo now, there's a small chance-"

"No, it's fine," Samson said, waving off the suggestion.

"Are you sure you don't want treatment?" asked the confused doctor. "You could have years to live, but without medical help they could be very painful."

"I know you doctors. If there was a small chance you'd tell me there was a big one. There's no help for me," said Samson. "Besides, I've been done for a while now."

_I can smell the death on the sheets  
Covering me  
I can't believe this is the end  
I can hear those sad memories  
Still haunting me  
So many things  
I'd do again_

Miles from Bolivar, Tennessee

_Why are you here? _Nathan asked himself for the hundredth time as he landed in front of the door.

His mother and Claire had left hours ago, and he just _had_ to fly to Tennessee at one in the morning. True, it wasn't like he would have been sleeping in that time anyway, but he had been drawn to this trailer in the woods by a strange impulse. And after a dream about killing an office worker on her birthday, the voice had been oddly quiet.

He entered the trailer with a sense of déjà vu that couldn't be right. He had never met the sick man sleeping in that old green armchair. Nathan wondered why Samson Gray didn't lock his front door at night if he wasn't a light sleeper.

The senator stood there, relishing the moment of mental peace. At least, from one assailant. Nathan Petrelli still didn't feel like himself. Another voice had crept up unexpectedly to speak some final words to the dying murderer. It was a quiet voice; the voice of a man who worked long hours; who didn't own a table because he never had visitors; who loved his mom despite her ridiculous expectations. A voice that had long been thought dead.

It remembered riding in a red wagon on a fall morning long ago and whispered, "Goodbye, Dad."

_But this is my deathbed  
I lie here alone  
If I close my eyes tonight  
I know I'll be home_

**A.N. **There you have it. Now **please review!** Thanks, and see ya next chapter. :)


	10. The Condemned

**A.N. **Wow, ten chapters! I can't believe I've made it this far in less than 3 months.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. This chapter's quote is from _Macbeth_. Menteith, a minor character and an enemy of Macbeth, is talking about Macbeth starting out as a good man and turning into a murderer and tyrant, and hating himself for it.

Chapter 10: The Condemned

_"Who then shall blame his pestered senses to recoil and start,  
When all that is within him does condemn  
Itself for being there?"_

Washington, D.C.

Nathan's eyes opened suddenly and without discernable reason. For once he had been enjoying a deep and dreamless sleep, and here he was awake at two a.m. Nathan groaned and pushed his face into the pillow. There was that big healthcare thing the next day, and the governor was getting on his back about not being alert-

_Nathan..._

At the sound of his name Nathan nearly jumped out of bed. He was used to hearing voices by now, but he couldn't tell whether he had heard that or thought it. Not that there seemed to be much of a difference anymore.

_Nathan._

It was sharper the second time. Nathan pulled on a white T-shirt while inspecting the room. It was easier to feel safe when clad in more than drawstring pants- at least, at the moment. But he _was _alone. There should be nothing to fear. In normal circumstances, he wouldn't be feeling fear and he could go back to sleep. Nathan checked his bedroom again, just in case. As he passed the mirror, he heard it:

"Look at me when I'm talking to you."

Nathan spun around. "Who-?" There was no one there.

"I said look at me," ordered the voice. Something wasn't right about it; it was too familiar. Not just familiar- stolen. Nathan slowly turned to face the mirror.

"What do you want from me?" he asked the reflection.

The thing in the mirror shook its head- no, that was _his _head; his head that the thing was using to make its point- and said, "You have nothing for me to want. Except, of course, my body."

"This isn't _your _body."

"I can see why you would think that, when it looks like you. But don't be so easily deceived," the thing said, speaking as if to a much less intelligent creature.

Nathan looked the thing in the eye. "This is insane. You say I'm not real, but you can't say that _you _are- or if you can, you won't. Why is that?"

"If you didn't know that I was right, you wouldn't be afraid," it pointed out. "Your denial is tiresome, senator."

Denial? How could it be called denial when there were multiple sets of facts staring him in the face? Nathan Petrelli's attitude, appearance, and memories felt like they had been there all along. That made sense, because that was who he was. But this man- this _monster _kept crawling up through the cracks. How could Nathan know that it was right when he didn't know if it was telling the truth? It could have invaded him somehow, before it was killed; or he could be crazy; or it could be right, and Nathan had been forced into its mind. And then there was that third voice, from even deeper down, that had surfaced in Samson Gray's house... neither Nathan nor the thing wanted to think about that.

"What are you?" Nathan pressed on.

The thing paused before deciding on a title. "The boogieman."

"Wrong question. Who are you?"

"I am-" the thing stopped, choking on the name. "My name is-" That wouldn't come out either. Nathan felt the slightest bit triumphant.

It kept trying, for the first time looking almost fearful. "I- I am N-Na-Nathan-" It attempted to fight, but didn't last long. "Nathan Petrelli!" the thing gasped out, the words now coming in a rush, "Son, brother, father, senator, Nathan... Nathan Petrelli."

Nathan looked on as the thing put its head- no, that was _his _head- in its hands. "No," it moaned. Its legs buckled, and the thing sank to its knees on the carpet, pulling Nathan down with it. "No, no, no, no, _no_..." Its extensive vocabulary had been boiled down to one word.

"That life is over," the thing muttered to itself. "Sylar's dead. That life- that life- it's over, it's all over..."

"Sylar is dead," said Nathan.

_"We all know Sylar's dead," Danko said, looking at him meaningfully._

No, that never happened; Danko had never said that to him-

"To me," the thing croaked out. "He said it to me."

"Shut up," Nathan said. "You don't exist."

"And what gives you the right to?" snapped the thing. "Do you even want to be alive?"

_"You loath yourself..."_

"Please just let me sleep," Nathan said. He wouldn't beg, but he felt almost ready to. He looked up at the mirror, and into the thing's eyes. It was in as much pain as he was, maybe more. Both of them were tired of this battle.

It sighed. "Tonight."

Nathan rose- gratefully- from to his feet. At long last he felt alone.

Petrelli Mansion

Peter was not enthusiastic about being an agent. He wasn't too thrilled about seeing his mother and Noah again either. The last time he had seen any of his family was two weeks ago, when he had accidentally flipped to a government TV channel where Nathan was speaking at a Senate meeting about healthcare. The only thing that really held his interest right now was those files, actually. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to acquire any of Sylar's powers through empathy. The time when he had been worried about having too much power felt centuries ago. Now he was just sick of being at the bottom of the Petrelli food chain. Not that that was anything new, and not that he should even care.

His mother opened the door just as he was about to knock. "Good, you're here," she said briskly. "Noah has the entire plan to discuss, and you have to meet your partner."

"I thought Noah was going to be my partner," Peter said, mildly confused. "One of us, one of them?"

"That's still the general rule, but since we're joining forces with Rebel and he doesn't seem to trust us, it's taking a different meaning for your assignment."

"And what's that?"

"One of ours, and one of his. Now hurry up, we don't want to keep them waiting."

**A.N. **So sorry this was so short, but I hoped you enjoyed it anyway. The next chapter will be meatier, promise! **Please review** with suggestions, compliments, and criticism.


	11. Glimpses of the Future

**Disclaimer: **I own zip, zero, and zilch. The quote is from the Second Witch in _Macbeth. _It's one of my less obscure ones.

Chapter 11: Glimpses of the Future

_"By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes."_

Los Angeles, California

Detective Matt Parkman was grateful for the silence of the empty house. Maybe the toys he kept stumbling over and the bright colored walls (definitely painted after the divorce) glaring out at him were less than relaxing, but the solitude felt like a tropical getaway. Of course, when Janice got back with Matty this attitude always evaporated. Still, some alone time was great after a day probing through minds for clues. That was all he used his power for anymore; anything else reminded him too much of what he had done three months ago at the Stanton Hotel.

Grabbing a soda from the fridge, Matt started listening to the messages on the answering machine. There were rarely any for him, except for work-related emergencies and the occasional call from Mohinder.

"Hiya, Janice," came a high pitched voice after _You have one new message._ "This is Tricia..."

Did every wife -not that they had remarried, yet- have an annoying friend? Matt rolled his eyes- and nearly did a double take at what he caught in his peripherals.

"Hello, Parkman," said Usutu.

Matt sighed. He had thought this might come up eventually. "Just tell me what you want."

"You have forsaken your duty. You were chosen to be a prophet, but you do not paint."

"Maybe that's because I don't want this, okay? I don't want to see the future or mess with people's heads anymore! All I want," said Matt, in a more subdued tone, "Is to be a father, and a cop, and a husband."

"Perhaps you have had too much pushed upon you," Usutu said contemplatively, but he - or whoever was in charge of picking prophets- must have decided this beforehand. "You will be released from you responsibilities as a prophet after one last vision."

Before Matt could say or do anything, the world went suddenly and frantically white.

Petrelli Mansion

It wasn't that she had expected Mr. Bennet to be the American James Bond, but... she had expected Mr. Bennet to be the American James Bond. Instead, after being ushered into the mansion by the woman who had introduced herself as Angela Petrelli, Bridget had met an average-looking, forty-something man with horn-rimmed glasses. She mentally chastised herself for being stupid.

"Hi, I'm Bridget Lynns," she had said, trying to act like this was not by far the biggest and fanciest house she'd ever been in.

The man who had been described to her as one of the most deceptive and dangerous Company agents in existence shook her hand. "Bennet. I'll be supervising you and your partner."

She waited for a first name. It didn't come. Had anyone thought to tell her beforehand? "So... will I be meeting my partner? I still don't know exactly what I'll be doing here."

Not for the first time, Bridget wished the Liberators had chosen one of their more experienced members -which would have been _anyone _else- for the mission. However, it was decided that all the other members needed to keep their identities secret until they found out how the new Company would be run, since they were already in the Primatech files. After a crash-course of rigorous training, Bridget was still positive that she would screw something up somehow. Good thing she had the Liberator headquarters as Speed Dial 1 on her new, GPS-equipped phone.

As if on cue, Angela entered the room again, this time with a man probably in his late twenties. This must be Peter Petrelli, her partner. He could easily be described as tall, dark, and handsome, Bridget decided. He was dressed in black jeans and a white, long-sleeved T shirt. Besides being a little pale and stressed-out looking, she could see no physical flaws. In conclusion, unless he turned out to be a huge jerk, she really wouldn't mind working with Peter.

Bridget once again mentally chastised herself for being stupid.

Angela beat her to the introduction. "Peter, this is Bridget. Bridget, this is my son, Peter. You'll be working together on the Outlook case."

The older woman could have just introduced them at a dinner party. Angela seemed like a very pleasant and harmless woman, but Bridget had been warned about her too. According to Hiro, Ando, Mohinder, and Rebel, Mrs. Petrelli was a ruthless, domineering matriarch who was not to be trusted. Peter's wary expression said he knew that all too well.

"Hi," said Peter.

"Hello," said Bridget.

Peter turned to Mr. Bennet. "So what's the mission?"

Mr. Bennet picked up two thick folders from the coffee table and handed Bridget and Peter one each. "Peter, you'll be our inside man. Using shape-shifting, you'll create a new identity for yourself. There's a bio and DNA sample in the folder. You'll be bugged, which will allow us to find out how Outlook works. You need to get as close to their leader as fast as you can. You may have to do some things you think are morally gray, but the important thing is to _never_ compromise your cover."

"Yeah, you would say that," said Peter, looking through his folder. "What if they find the bug?"

"That's why you never compromise your cover," Bennet said. He handed Peter a pair of rather large black studs. "You're getting your ears pierced. One of these records sound, one is a camera."

"That's where you come in, Bridget," Angela said.

"What do I do?" Bridget asked, not really seeing how that was where she came in.

"We need somebody to be watching and listening all the time Peter is working for Outlook. He can't contact us in any way, so you'll be his only way to call for backup," explained Bennet. "Rebel said you would be able to identify if anyone was hacking into the signal."

"Yeah, I can, but isn't there something else I could do?" Sitting at a computer all day sounded way too much like her old job.

"Surveillance is a very important part of the mission," Angela said. "Besides, we don't know how far we can trust Rebel. You'll have to earn your place."

This sounded a little more like the description Bridget had heard. No inoffensive reply really jumped into her mind after Angela's statement. Peter, on the other hand, wasn't afraid to speak exactly what he was thinking.

"Are you serious? Rebel protected people with abilities while you two just let it happen and _you_ don't trust _him_?"

"Peter, you already know that we were working undercover, much like you'll be doing in Outlook," said Angela. And Bridget had thought her tone couldn't possibly get any more patronizing.

Peter rolled his eyes. Sure it was disrespectful, but with the reputations Angela and Bennet had, maybe it was deserved? Bridget really needed to find out more, so she didn't get herself into one of the worse-case scenarios Claude had described. However, with a GPS tracker in her arm (Hiro was a big fan of GPS) it would be hard for her to mysteriously disappear.

Bennet broke the awkward silence before it had fully begun. "Start learning your material when you get home. We'll have another meeting here in three days, then you'll start."

Since 'home', at the moment, was a tiny apartment with almost nothing in it yet, procrastination would be nearly impossible. Besides, Bridget had always been good at memorizing things. _I'm the rookie of a superhero team working undercover as a secret agent. This isn't just homework, this is the fate of the world. Possibly, _she added. No one knew what Outlook was really up to besides recruiting and kidnapping people, even with all the data they had gathered.

Bridget nodded and told Bennet, Angela, and Peter she was sure it would be a pleasure working with them. She really wasn't so sure, but that was why she was there. Nobody was sure about the new Company. Even Peter didn't look a hundred percent on-board.

Los Angeles, California

"Matt? Matt?!"

"Huh? What?" Matt awoke on the kitchen floor with Janice kneeling beside him. He looked around. "I must have gone into a trance..." Colored pens and pencils were scattered on the floor around him.

"What are you talking about?" Janice asked. "I came home and you were passed out on the floor - and what are these? I didn't know you could draw."

Matt quickly rose to his feet, taking the drawings from Janice. "I can't. It's an ability," he explained. Then he thought back to what Usutu had told him. "But don't worry. It won't happen again."

The first picture was mostly dark grays, midnight blues, and black shadows. The setting was a bedroom lit only by the moonlight that had snuck in through the locked window. The silvery beam shone like a spotlight on the bed and its occupant, a teenage girl. Her blond hair was the brightest thing in the drawing, tucked behind her ears to accommodate black headphones. She lay curled up, crying, with arms crossed over her chest so that it was impossible to read her sweatshirt's lettering.

"What _are _these?" Janice asked.

"The future," Matt answered. "I was chosen to paint -or draw it. But when I said I didn't want it, they took it away."

"But not until after you drew these," Janice finished. She opened her mouth to say something else, but was diverted by Matty's crying down the hall. She hurried off to see if anything was the matter. Matt remained in the kitchen. Future paintings were a cause for him to call Noah Bennet or Angela Petrelli. That would be a humbling experience after he had insisted that he was "out, cold turkey", and would never work with them again.

Bright orange flames stood out from the second drawing. People gathered on the sidewalk to watch some firemen try to save an apartment building from being consumed. Matt inspected this picture longer than he had the first. While the crying girl definitely resembled Claire Bennet, everything about the fire scene was anonymous. Matt could only guess that it wasn't L.A.

He turned to the third and final prophecy as Matty's cries subsided. A kneeling Peter Petrelli stared at him from the paper with guilt, despair, and a gun pressed to his temple by his own white-knuckled hands.

**A.N. **Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this eleventh installment. **Please review** with criticism, compliments, and suggestions. General feedback is a beautiful thing. Oh, and yes, I know I stole Matt's cold turkey line from the previews for the new season. No, I won't be using "I want my body back", as much as I really, really want to. Kay, you can go review now. x)


	12. Outlet

**A.N. **Hola! Here's chapter 12, ready to read. I have to add that since school is starting soon, I might not be able to update as regularly. But I shall try. Thanks to everybody who has read and reviewed this story. I will now be so bold as to ask you to **please review! **this chapter, whether you have before or not.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Especially not Heroes or lyrics from _Gimme Shelter_ by the Rolling Stones. The quote is from _A Tale of Two Cities_ by Charles Dickens.

Chapter 12: Outlet

_"Some intense associations of a most distressing nature where vividly recalled, I think. It is probable that there had long been a dread lurking in his mind, that those associations would be recalled -say, under certain circumstances- say, on a particular occasion. He tried to prepare himself in vain; perhaps the effort to prepare himself made him less able to bear it."_

Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport, Texas

Claire tapped the armrest of her chair anxiously while she waited for her dad to pick up the phone. The balding man in the seat next to her gave her a look, but she ignored him. Claire had officially decided that she was sick of airports. At least Walden was in DC, and closer to New York than California. The less flights she had to take from now on, the better. That much airline food could take its toll on even her indestructible digestive system.

Noah Bennet picked up. "Hi, Claire. Aren't you supposed to be on the plane right now?"

"Um, yeah, about that-"

"You missed your flight."

"_No_, I didn't miss it," Claire said indignantly. "It was delayed until tomorrow. So I was thinking maybe I'd called Nathan-"

"He's probably busy," said Noah, far to sharply for the situation, in Claire's opinion.

"I was _going _to say," Claire continued. "_If _he's not busy, then I'd ask if he could maybe fly me to DC. If not, I'll just spend the night at the airport and wait until tomorrow, okay? Hopefully my roommate will be nice enough to fill me in about what they said at orientation."

Noah reluctantly consented and ended the phone call. _He gets more protective the older I get,_ Claire thought. And what was his problem with Nathan lately? Just because she was getting to know her biological father better didn't mean Noah had to get all paranoid about it. He couldn't be jealous, could he?

Nathan answered his phone more quickly than Noah had. "Claire, I thought you had a flight a few minutes ago."

Claire sighed. "I was supposed to, but it got delayed until tomorrow, even though they already loaded all the luggage. So I was wondering if you could do me a _huge_ favor and-"

"And fly you to DC myself," Nathan finished.

"If you're not busy," Claire hurriedly added.

"Which airport are you at?"

"Dallas-Fort Worth. You're the best, Nathan. Thank you _so _much."

"It's fine, Claire," Nathan replied, sounding a little amused by her gush of gratitude. "I think I can be there in an hour."

"Okay, um, I'll wait by the entrance for Southwest?"

"Sounds good. See you later."

"Yeah, see you later. And thank you!"

Los Angeles, California

_How do you tell someone they're going to commit suicide?_

Matt had thought about this question long and hard, but he still wasn't sure what to say when Peter Petrelli answered his phone. He hadn't spoken to Peter in three months, and to call now felt like going behind Angela's and Noah's backs. Matt had shaken that off; Peter was his own person. He didn't have to go through anybody to call him.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Peter. It's Matt."

"Oh, hey. Haven't heard from you for a while," said Peter. He sounded different, somehow, than when they had last spoken. Was it frustration? Matt wished he could read the younger man's mind over the phone.

"Yeah." Might as well cut to the chase. "I have something to tell you about one of my drawings."

"So, the future."

"Your future."

"Okay." There was some uneasiness in Peter's tone. When someone had spent as much time around precogs as he had, it made sense to expect the worst.

Matt breathed in and said, "Have you been thinking about killing yourself?"

"What? No. Wait- is that your drawing? Am I going to?"

"I'm not sure, but it looks like it," said Matt. He looked at the piece of paper in his hand. He wished he could figure out _when _it was going to happen. "You're putting a gun to your head. What else would that tell you?"

"Matt, that doesn't make any sense."

"Good. Then you can change it."

"Yeah, I'll try to avoid killing myself," replied Peter sarcastically. There it was again: something was noticeably different than three months ago.

"Just be careful," Matt said. He thought of the second drawing. "And call me if you see any apartment fires, okay?"

"That's another drawing?"

"Yeah."

A pause, then, "It's better than a bomb."

"Right." Matt considered telling Peter about the picture of Claire, but what would that accomplish? She had been alone in the picture anyway. What could anyone do about the first drawing? Tell Claire not to get upset about anything? She was a college student; she could be stressed out about midterms or something. Not that that would be worth a prophecy, but Claire's future was the most difficult to predict. The fire could be arson or murder, and Peter's suicide was obviously a bad thing, but Claire crying seemed small compared to those events.

"You still there?" asked Peter.

"Yeah, sorry."

"I have to go. Noah gave me all these files and stuff to memorize."

"You're working for the Company?" That was unexpected. Maybe there was more substance to the drawing after all.

"Yeah," Peter said. "Sometimes I think they don't know I have a real job. Anyway, I guess I'll talk to you next time the world needs saving, huh?"

"Or if you see an apartment fire."

"Right."

"Take care of yourself."

"As opposed to killing myself; I got it," said Peter. "Bye."

"Bye," Matt replied, but Peter had already ended the call.

Elizabeth City, North Carolina

Soaking wet and extremely annoyed, Claire Bennet and Nathan Petrelli landed behind a bus stop. Thunder boomed and distant lightning cracked while rain poured from the clouds at about the same speed as water from a power shower. Obviously, these were not safe flying conditions.

"I can't believe this," said Claire, looking up at the turbulent sky. "What else could possibly go wrong?"

"I don't think you should have said that," said Nathan. He shook some water off his jacket.

Claire couldn't help but smile. It was a slightly un-Nathan thing to say, but so were more and more things he was saying as she got to know him better. "Fine," she said. "What do we do now?"

Nathan walked to a phone booth next to the creatively graffitied bus stop. "Find some place to rent a car," he replied, flipping through the complementary tattered phone book. "This storm won't be stopping any time soon."

Claire moved to look over her father's shoulder. "Yeah, but how long will it take us to drive to Washington?"

"About... four and a half hours," Nathan said. He pointed to an ad in the yellow pages. "There's a Hotspur Car Rental a few blocks away."

Claire sighed and pulled up the hood of her Walden sweatshirt. "Are you sure we can't just fly?" she asked jokingly.

Shutting the phone book, Nathan started down the wet sidewalk. "Not a chance. Only one of us can survive getting struck by lightning."

Manhattan, New York City, New York

Bridget Lynns now possessed two very nice computers - one for monitoring Peter during the mission, the other for miscellaneous tasks. They looked out of place in the 'office' - which may or may not have used to be a large closet - of her apartment. Still, the techie in Bridget was pleased. The rest of Bridget couldn't help but notice that she could feel the springs through her mattress, see the lack of sufficient counter space in the bathroom (another possible closet renovation), and wonder why she couldn't have gotten a better apartment.

_So much for benefits_, she thought. But, not one to complain out loud, she did not mention her accommodations to her new bosses. Secret agents, Bridget told herself, did not need to be comfortable. She could always get a new mattress, or paint the kitchen/living room a less annoying color. Nobody had told her not to.

Grabbing the leftover pizza from the fridge, Bridget flopped onto the under-stuffed couch. She reached for the remote, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. Hopefully it wasn't Bennet with more homework.

To Bridget's surprise, she opened the door to Peter Petrelli. "Hi," he said a little awkwardly. "How are you?"

"Um, fine. How are you?" _And why are you here?_

"Fine."

There was a silence. Bridget, still a little confused as to why her partner was there, asked, "Do you want to come inside?"

"Yeah, sorry about-"

"No, it's fine, I-"

"You were eating-"

"Well, not really-"

"I'll just-"

"Stay," Bridget said, moving to close the door behind him. "It's totally fine. You can help me finish my pizza."

Peter looked relieved. "Sorry. I just got this really- unusual phone call, and I guess I just had to get out of my apartment."

"Oh," Bridget said, holding out the pizza box in a _take some _gesture. "What was it about?"

Peter hesitated. "A prophecy."

"Like one of your mom's?"

"A little different," said Peter. After swallowing a bite of Canadian bacon and pineapple, he changed the subject. "So you've actually met Rebel?"

"Yeah," answered Bridget. After hesitating, she added, "You don't know him."

"I guessed that. My mom said you were 'one of his.' How many people work for Rebel?" Peter sounded simply curious, not suspicious, but that didn't change the limits on what Bridget could tell him. The Liberators had agreed that a minimum of information about them should be given out, especially to those closely connected with the Company.

Bridget did a quick count in her head. "There are eight of us."

"How'd they find you?"

"How do you know I didn't find them?"

Peter shrugged. "Rebel doesn't seem like an easy guy to find."

"True," Bridget said. "I was kidnapped by Outlook recruiters. The team came in to free all the prisoners and I helped." She wished she could tell Peter more about the Liberators. He wasn't a huge fan of the Company if his attitude during the meetings was any indicator. Still, Bridget had to wait for Rebel's okay until she could let Peter in on their operation.

_Waiting for orders from a thirteen year old boy, _thought Bridget. Of course, Rebel (it was hard to think of him as Micah) wasn't the only one cautious about what information to give Peter. Hiro and Ando had no qualms about him, but Mohinder strongly distrusted the Petrellis. He trusted Peter, but not his ability to avoid being exploited by Angela or Bennet. Claude was paranoid about anything and everything Company related, but with good reason. Bennet had nearly killed him and Peter, in his mind, was still a pushover sponge.

That reminded Bridget of something. "I heard you almost blew up New York," she said.

Peter smiled in the way Bridget's uncle used to when he talked about Vietnam. "Yeah. Long story."

"Okay, how does it start?"

"Technically, it starts in the sixteen hundreds."

"That is a long story," Bridget said. She remembered Hiro telling her about Takezo Kensei and Adam Monroe. Odds were she already knew what Peter was talking about. "But how does it start for you?"

Peter had to think about that for a minute. "Probably when told my brother that I thought I could fly."

"But he's the one who can fly, right? You just had empathy?"

"Yeah," Peter said, looking at her a little oddly. "Anyway, that's when everything started happening."

Bridget smiled. She'd heard parts of this story from Mohinder, Rebel, Hiro, Ando, and Claude. It was amazing how every had fit together in the end. Hiro, of course, said it had been destiny. Mohinder had shrugged it off as an unexplained phenomenon. "So?"

"So... what?"

"Come on, just because you said it's a long story doesn't mean you don't have to tell it," Bridget insisted playfully. "I gave you pizza."

Peter laughed. "Okay, fine. So I told Nathan I thought I could fly, and then..."

Roseville, Virginia

"I don't see why it's so funny, Claire," Nathan said.

The teenage girl in the passenger seat stifled her laughter. "Because it's just not _you_, you know? I mean, since when can you do accents?"

"I really don't know," he confessed. And yet he had just used one as a joke. Something about this harmless new talent was disturbing; something about how it had come out of nowhere but seemed to have been there all the time.

"You, Nathan Petrelli, are full of surprises," Claire said, still smiling.

Nathan gave a weak smile in return. He turned the radio up a notch. She didn't know the half of it, and hopefully never would.

"We probably have another hour to go," he said.

Claire looked out the window. The thunderstorm had stopped a half hour ago at midnight, but it wasn't as if they could just abandon the rental car and fly. "When I lived in Texas I never thought I'd see this much of the country. Then all of a sudden it's _Save the cheerleader, save the world_ and I can't seem to stay in one place."

Nathan nodded. He was about to say that he had thought he'd never get out of New York, but stopped. That made no sense. He had been to another state by the time he was seven.

Nathan had the sudden feeling that he should pull over. Tell Claire to go the rest of the way herself and fly home. Throughout the entire drive everything that wasn't his had been creeping up on him and acting as though it was normal. Nathan realizedthat he hadn't been the one who was so eager to go on this trip.

The thing knew Claire was an outlet. She was connected to some of the biggest events in its life. In a sick way, she was more important to it than she was to Nathan. Because of this, the thing was able to keep shoving blood and obsession at him until he couldn't take it anymore and just snapped. Or suffocated, or faded away.

Nathan swallowed nervously. He turned up the radio again to try and distract himself from false memories and a sense of impending death.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said. For a few minutes the only sound was the music from the oldies station:

_The floods is threat'ning  
My very life today  
Gimme, gimme shelter  
Or I'm gonna fade away_

"So I'm thinking of dying my hair," Claire said.

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. After it grows out some more."

Nathan was glad Claire had brought up something completely trivial and irrelevant to anything. "What color?"

"Just brown."

"What's wrong with how your hair is now?"

Claire shrugged. "Nothing, I guess. I just want to try something new."

"Oh." That was all Nathan could force out, because the thing had decided to reflect on a certain entirely inappropriate conversation between itself and Claire back at the Stanton. He had never realized what his daughter's shampoo smelled like before.

"If you're tired, I could drive," Claire was saying.

Nathan realized he was almost in the center of the road. "It's fine," he assured her, steering back into his lane.

"Okay," she said. "But if I could be killed in a car crash, I wouldn't be saying that."

"There's nothing to run into," Nathan argued. He decided to change the subject. "Excited for college?"

Claire groaned. "I knew you'd ask me that eventually."

"So what's the answer?"

"Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"I don't know what to major in," Claire confessed.

"Why not?"

"I don't know when I'm going to stop aging."

That was not the answer he had expected. He didn't know what to say, but somehow his mouth was moving and words were coming out. "So if it's for a long term kind of job you might look too young to know what you're doing."

"Yeah," Claire said, sounding relieved. "I just have this feeling that I'll stop before I turn twenty-one. Please don't tell my dad."

"I won't," Nathan promised. No- that wasn't him promising- or was it? The thing was grinning at him, and Nathan- he couldn't seem to think straight. Would he have said that? He would've asked Claire what majors she was thinking about, but she was so relieved when the thing's words came out of his mouth-

"Seriously, Nathan," Claire said more firmly than before. "Are you okay?"

"I, um, I- I think-" _I think I'm drowning._

And, suddenly, he went under.

**A.N. **Please **review** with any and all feedback.


	13. The Crying Girl

**A.N. **Here it is. The unlucky thirteenth chapter. Thanks to all you awesome reviewers and **please review** this chapter as well. Or, you know, if you haven't reviewed yet, it's never too late to try new things!

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Heroes_, don't own _We Gotta Get Out of This Place _by the Animals or _Pretty Girl (The Way) _by Sugarcult. This quote is from _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_. Kind of back to basics with that. It's Jekyll talking to his good buddy Utterson about his whole strange ordeal...

Chapter 13: The Crying Girl

_"Some day, Utterson, after I am dead, you may perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this. I cannot tell you."_

Roseville, Virginia

Something went totally and completely wrong when Nathan started choking on his words. After that _something _happened, he lost control of the car for a moment while he gasped for air like a drowning man. He had been acting a little strangely before, but that was nothing compared to this.

It ended almost as soon as it had begun.

"Are you okay?" Claire asked again, knowing that the answer was a resounding _no._

Nathan hadn't fully regained composure yet. "Yeah," he managed to answer. He sounded - confused.

Claire didn't believe him for a second. "What just happened?"

That dazed expression was still in place. "I really don't know," he answered.

She froze. _That _was what was wrong. How he said it gave him away, and even now he was rearranging his face to make up for it. He thought she hadn't noticed, but how could she _not_?

They drove in silence while Claire tried to think of what to do. _Focus on escape._ Never mind how it was even possible; how was she going to get out of this?

She could jump out the door. She would live, but he could easily catch up to her. Or stop her from jumping in the first place, if she wasn't fast enough. If she was what he was after. Given the circumstances, that seemed all too likely.

God, it was like the Stanton all over again. Sitting still like maybe he would forget she was there. Not daring to even press the speed dial on her phone because he was watching, even if it might not seem like it. At least this time he wasn't standing between her and the window, but he _was _driving the car.

_My little girl, you're so young and pretty  
And one thing I know is true  
You'll be dead before your time is due_

Claire reached over to turn off the radio. The man wearing her father's face made no protest.

She tried to slow her racing heart. Confrontation was dangerous, but she wasn't going to sit back and fake it all the way to Washington.

"You're not Nathan."

The expected _What are you talking about, Claire? _did not come. Instead, a grin - not his usual smirk, but a slow, terrible, triumphant grin - spread across that psychopath's face.

"You know what, Claire?" he said. "I'm not."

She had told both of them that she wasn't scared anymore. Right now that wasn't true, and she hated that cold fear creeping through her guts. "What are you doing here?" Claire asked.

"I'm just taking you to Washington, like you asked me to," he answered. The grin had settled back to the familiar smirk. Claire wanted to punch it off of Nathan's face; it didn't belong there.

"I didn't ask _you_," she said.

"True," he agreed. "But as Nathan's not here right now, I thought I'd step in."

"It's not fair," Claire said. She knew it sounded childish, but she couldn't help it. "You don't get to just come back from everything."

"I was never gone."

"Then where were you?" She was afraid he might pounce on that question and its confused implications, but he didn't.

Instead, he lifted a finger and put it to the side of his - _Nathan's _head. "Right here."

"_How_?"

He shrugged. "You'd have to ask Angela and Noah for the details." Despite his casual gesture his tone was deadly. Understandably, Claire couldn't help but think when she mentally replayed the conversation later.

"He said he was going to change," she said numbly. What had they done, and why was she not all that surprised?

"You believed him?" he asked bitterly.

_I don't know_, she thought, but there was no way she was going to say it out loud, not to him. "Who are you really?" Claire asked.

The question hit him harder than she thought it would. All Claire had wanted to do was change the subject, knowing this question might get a long answer out of him and distract him - but he was taking it so much farther. Any triumph in his expression disappeared as he almost whispered, "Don't ask me that."

It wasn't a command; it was a plea. What had Noah and Angela done, and why had they needed to do this? Now Nathan was stuck with a Sylar who wasn't even sure he was Sylar in his head. Or was it Nathan who was stuck in Sylar? Claire tried to make sense of it. Sylar was a shape-shifter; wouldn't he physically change back to himself when he mentally changed? Could someone - maybe Matt - have somehow moved Sylar's consciousness into a Nathan's body?

"They should have just killed you."

"I thought you wanted that privilege."

"I-" Claire started, then stopped abruptly.

His hands were shaking and she could see beads of sweat on his forehead. He was going to shift again. Relief flooded through her. This time she was ready to grab the steering wheel when the car swerved.

Nathan was back.

"W- What just happened?"

Claire studied her father's face. He was too shaken up to lie. He really didn't know; he must have blacked out. She heard herself say, "I think you fell asleep. You really need to let me drive."

Manhattan, New York City, New York

Bridget Lynns sat at the Miscellaneous Tasks Computer and scrolled down the Programs list to Accessories, then Games, and finally Solitaire. She began a game, but after a few moments clicked on something other than a card. At the bottom of the screen was the game timer, labeled 'tIMer.'

When she clicked the tIMer, Bridget was directed to the login page of Liberation's own _very _private chat room. After she logged in as 'Firewall' all she could do was wait for Rebel or another team member to join her online.

_Firewall. _Her very own codename. West had been the one to suggest it. Bridget had chosen the name despite Ando's protests that 'Flaming Fist' was better. Hiro had joined the discussion a little while later and pointed out that 'Flaming Fist' only sounded cool in Japanese. The argument had ended then, for the most part.

Bridget thought about how Peter had described the Hiro Nakamura from the future who had appeared to him on the train. Hiro and Ando had been a bit sketchy about their trip to that future, partly because they had been in different places for most of that time. Bridget couldn't help but wonder if it was more than that, if they were uncomfortable with the subject because Hiro saw himself becoming more and more like that future self. Maybe what had been _five-years-from-now_ was coming too fast for the former time-traveler. He certainly wasn't as naive as he was in any version of the story of stopping the exploding man.

Some people seemed to prefer the future to race toward them. Peter, for example, gave the impression that he couldn't wait for the current part of his life to be over. He didn't mean to show it; Bridget was sure about that. Still, there was a restlessness about him. After hearing from multiple sources about how the rest of Peter's family treated him, Bridget could understand why.

Her own family hadn't been exactly perfect either. Bridget had been impatient for the time when her mother would divorce her most recent husband. All five of them Bridget had hated, including her biological father. Her mother had pleaded with her each and every time to be civil; they were a family now. Bridget had refused until the age of twenty, after she moved out. By that time the offer of forgiveness had been withdrawn.

Bridget sighed and jiggled the mouse. Nothing happened. Big surprise.

A surprise - that was what her conversation with Peter had been. Bridget had never been great around men she found attractive - and Peter was definitely that - but they had gotten along well. With very few awkward moments, she might add.

They had talked until he had to go to work. Peter said he didn't mind working the night shift, but Bridget wondered how much sleep he was getting. Not much, judging from the dark circles under his eyes and his almost-unhealthy pallor.

Bridget yawned. Soon _she _would be in that condition if Rebel didn't log on already. She impatiently twisted some frizzy hair around her index finger.

_StJoan has signed in_

_Finally,_ Bridget thought. At least she got the closest team member to Rebel. Monica was probably one of her favorite team mates. Despite very different abilities and backgrounds, the two young women had hit it off right away.

_StJoan: _How's NYC?

_Firewall: _Pretty good. I need to talk to Rebel. Can u get him?

_StJoan:_ 1 sec

After a few minutes it appeared Monica Dawson had located her cousin.

_Rebel has signed in_

_Rebel:_ Hi Firewall. What's up?

_Might as well go for the straightforward approach, _Bridget decided.

_Firewall: _I think we should tell Peter about the team. He deserves to know what's really going on before he goes in there.

A pause, then,

_Rebel: _So you definitely trust him?

_Firewall:_ Yes. He trusts the Company about as much as we do.

_StJoan: _Does he trust you?

_Firewall: _I think so.

_Firewall: _& if we tell him now he won't have anything to hold against us later

_Rebel: _I think it sounds good but we need to discuss it as a team.

_StJoan: _But not in the middle of the night.

_Rebel: _Yeah

_Firewall: _OK

Bridget smiled to herself. She was glad they had listened to her, not just because it was better for the mission, but also because it showed that she really was respected as a member of Liberation. But mostly for the unselfish reason, she would like to think.

_Rebel: _Log on at noon tomorrow. Team meeting.

_StJoan: _Go to bed :)

_Firewall: _Will do. C ya.

_Firewall has signed off_

_Rebel has signed off_

_StJoan has signed off_

Washington, D.C.

Claire drove the rest of the way to Washington. She pushed everything out of her mind except the road and breathing. Her driver's ed instructor would have been proud. She could not think; she would go crazy. This was one of those things that was simply not supposed to happen.

Nathan didn't try to start any conversations. Neither did anyone else inhabiting his body. For this Claire was profusely grateful.

After what seemed like a century, they reached the apartment complex where Noah Bennet lived. He had moved into a more permanent residence when the divorce was official. It was a two bedroom, but the second would be converted into an office as soon as the chance of random Outlook deserters turning up - and needing to be kept away from paranoid government officials - was gone.

More like Outlook prisoners they wouldn't want the government to know about, Claire couldn't help but think now. How could she have believed her father's excuses just because he said he was going to change? How could anyone tell what the Company's limits were now?

She pulled into a parking spot a little ways from the building.

"I'll take the car back when I have time," Nathan offered.

Normally Claire would have protested and said she'd do it herself; this trip had been too much to ask in the first place. Now she just nodded. All she wanted to do was get inside and away from this entire night, this entire crazy trip. She got out of the car as Nathan exited to come around to the driver's seat.

They said their quick, tired goodbyes. Claire tried not to walk too quickly into the apartment building. Noah would probably still be awake, waiting for her safe return into his line of sight. No wonder he hadn't wanted her to get close to Nathan -

"Claire."

She turned around. Nathan was standing next to the driver's side door, his expression unreadable through the moonlight.

"I promise I won't let him hurt you," he said. So he had figured it out. How much did he know? _How much can he be trusted?_

But when she looked at him now . . . this was Nathan Petrelli, that corruptible and imperfect man who was facing the atomic bomb in the form of a human being. That human being happened to be himself, and it was one of the most unstable weapons on the planet.

This was Nathan Petrelli showing no fear.

She ran back to him and hugged him as tightly as she could; he could disappear at any moment. "I love you, Dad."

"I love you too," Nathan said. Stepping back, he put his hands on her shoulders and added, "You better remember every _detail_ they tell you at orientation."

Claire managed a weak smile. "I will. See you later."

I hope I see _you_ later, but tomorrow you might be gone.

Nathan replied, "You will."

He got into the car.

She waved goodbye. Maybe this would be the last time. Maybe she would think back two hundred years from now and remember this moment in the moonlight as incredibly important.

Just as Claire predicted, Noah Bennet was awake and waiting for her upstairs. The coffee pot on the kitchen counter was almost empty; apparently fearing for her life had not been enough to keep him alert. She could not talk to him, not now. Fortunately, he was satisfied enough with her feigned fatigue and let her off easy.

The second bedroom was small, but not claustrophobic. This didn't seem to stop the darkness from closing in on her. Claire pulled her headphones out of the front pocket of her sweatshirt. She been listening to them on the plane, but had wanted to talk to Nathan instead in the car. Now the black headphones were security: hear no evil.

There were blankets on the edge of the bed, but she didn't bother to use them. Almost reflexively, she curled up on top of the sheet and pressed _play_. Her taste in music had changed in the past few months, meaning that she had actually sought it out instead of just half-listening to the radio and downloading what everyone else was listening to. Maybe that meant something. Maybe she didn't care if it did or not.

Claire was not even really aware of shedding the first tear. It caught her attention when it dripped onto her hand and the moon made it shine. That moonlight, sneaking through the window and highlighting her to the stars.

_Look at this girl_, it told them. _About to turn eighteen and already she's screwed her life up. We can watch her try to make it up for the next billion years. Getting into that elevator was the worst decision she ever made._

The tears came faster and would not stop. She crossed her arms over her chest and tried to forget, at least until she could deal with this. She could not turn to her father ever again.

Claire did not want to think. But it was impossible to stop, even for a second.

_Pretty girl is suffering  
While he confesses everything  
Pretty soon she'll figure out  
You can never get him out of your head_

**A.N. **I hope you enjoyed the chapter. **Please review** with any and all feedback.

For those of you who might be still wondering: yes, that was the realization of Matt's first drawing. Remember that there are three prophecies to go (two of Matt's, one of Angela's.) I'll try to make it as clear as possible that they're happening when they happen. There will be a reference in the title.

Kay, briefing done. Just click the little green button... and I'll be back next chapter.


	14. No Such Thing As Ghosts

**A.N. **It's back! So sorry this took so long, you guys. This chapter is a bit more romance-oriented than the others. It also definitely has the least complex scenery: a man and a woman in a dark room, and a man and a woman in a well-lit room. It's on the short side and barely edited (I went artistic and tried to just feel what was going on between the people and type what came out of it), but I hope you like it anyway. The next chapter will have a good deal of plot-advancing meat in it, fyi.

**Disclaimer: **I own a grand total of nothing. Hooray! Today's quote is another one from the great Lewis Carroll.

Chapter 14: No Such Thing As Ghosts

_"I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, because I'm not myself, you see."_

Odessa, Texas

"Look who's back," Elle said to him mockingly. But maybe he should be more flattered than provoked, since she was visiting him on only the third day of his imprisonment.

Sylar gritted his teeth and asked, "Got another needle for me, or is this a purely social visit?"

She rolled her eyes and gave him a quick zap on the forehead. "Don't cut to the chase so fast. It's no fun."

He was finding her pouts and sparks and quips decidedly not cute. Already this second term in jail was worse than the first, and Elle was not helping any. For the past three days Sylar had been sitting in the dark corner of his concrete cell imagining all the increasingly creative and violent ways he could kill Nathan Petrelli. Again.

And the straitjacket - the straightjacket was a new and unbearable experience. Although it was probably the only thing saving Elle from a certain amount of torture at the moment. That and the fact that his powers were suppressed.

"Fine," he said with a sigh, "don't help me. Don't tell me anything, don't give me anything, don't even talk to me."

"Well, somebody's in a good mood."

"Zippadee-doo-dah."

"You're such a wimp," Elle told him. "Daddy put me in solitary tons of times, so don't tell me that the big bad Sylar can't take it. At least you aren't blindfolded."

"There are no lights."

"My electrical manipulation not good enough for you?"

"When you have it and still choose to sit in the dark, then no, it's not."

"You got me there." Silence for about a minute, then: "But when I used it coming in I could tell you look pretty good in a straightjacket."

Now it was Sylar's turn to roll his eyes. "I can't believe my subconscious is making you say that. I must be even more pathetic than I previously thought."

"Hey," Elle protested. "First of all, I'm not your subconscious. And second of all, you're not _that_ pathetic. Normally I'd let someone beat himself up if he got owned by the flying Petrelli, but I really don't think there was anything you could do about it. It's like _Harry Potter_. The parent's love for the kid is the only thing the bad guy can't beat."

"I'm going to ignore that last part and ask how can you prove that you're not something I'm... projecting?"

A pause. "Why don't you believe me?"

Sylar chuckled and replied in a mockingly childish tone: "There's no such thing as ghosts."

"Says the guy who talks to his dead mother when he's planning to take over the country."

"That- that was-" he didn't know what to say. He didn't think he would ever be able to explain how that happened. "Don't talk about my mother."

"Right. And you don't bring up my father."

"I _don't._ And that was different." Sylar was confused by her statement; had she just come to his cell looking for a fight? She insisted she wasn't his subconscious, but this felt like a dream somehow.

"Not much. You killed them both." That both murders had been the same was a ridiculous assumption, but Elle's expression was completely serious. Not that she couldn't lie convincingly, but...

All he could think to say was: "What is your problem?"

"_My_ problem? You don't think that after you killed me and Da- my father, and you burned down my home, and you hit on Claire- on _Claire_ - that I deserve to have some kind of beef with you? You're unbelievable!"

_No, _he wanted to say, _what's unbelievable is that you and I are both supposed to be dead, and here we are fighting like a married couple in the dark._

Elle really did miss the humor in the situation. Sylar chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

Sylar grinned at her, "You're mad at me for hitting on Claire."

"Among other things," she said defensively.

"No, no, you're over those," he told her. "I don't need my ability to know how you tick. You're jealous."

Elle was extremely offended, or at least acted it convincingly. "I am not!"

"I think you are."

"I think your ego is sucking the oxygen out of the room."

"Elle. come _on._ Claire hates me. It was just- I was just having fun. Besides, you kissed _Peter_. And I was alive at the time, unlike you with my situation."

"How did you know I..."

Sylar shrugged. "Peter told Nathan at some point."

"Awesome."

He waited for her to say something further, but she just sat there. He wished he could see her face.

"But the point is-" Elle finally began.

"The point of what?" Sylar interrupted.

"Of _this_, of all that crap you did - it's that..." she trailed off, and he waited for her to speak again. "You know you're not Nathan, but you don't know who you actually are. You just- you're more than killing people. I mean, I'm not lying when I say you're special, and you know that to me killing people isn't a big deal."

"What are you trying to say?" Sylar asked, his voice cold as the cement floor.

He heard her sniff, like she had been crying, then half-laugh it off. It made him wonder once again why she was really here. "I wish I could hold your hand right now. I wish you could be Gabriel and I could just tell you it's gonna be okay."

"But it's not," he finished for her.

"Yeah."

The cell had not felt like a crypt until that silence.

Arlington, Virginia

"And you think he's really gone?" Isabel Moreno asked him.

Nathan nodded. He had just finished telling her about the trip with Claire, and couldn't help but think she was taking it amazingly well. He had reminded himself how she had accepted everything else. _If everyone was like her, we wouldn't have half our problems. _Then he couldn't help but think that people with abilities had been _they_, not _we_, to him not so long ago.

"Maybe not _gone_," Nathan corrected. "More like locked up."

"To protect Claire." She noticed his expression and added, "Of course not only to protect Claire, but that was what drove you to take action. It's not a bad thing."

"I know," he said. "Really, I know." The glass wall in the back of his mind wasn't cracking, so how could he not? This had to be the best thing that had every happened to him.

She smiled at him, and he couldn't help but reciprocate. The lamplight seemed so much warmer than usual, maybe because of what he knew he had to say. "So," Nathan began.

"So."

"There's nothing really to get therapy for anymore, I guess."

"I had a feeling you were going to say that. I just wasn't sure when," she said. "But I want you to be sure that this situation is really over, that you're not in any more danger."

"I'm not," he assured her, and it felt like the truth.

"Good," Dr. Moreno said. "Then before you go, I - I want to ask for a favor."

"A favor?"

"It's going to sound completely childish," she said, her smile becoming beautifully shy for the first time since Nathan had met her, "but I didn't want to let the chance go by."

"Doctor-"

"Isabel," she interrupted. "I'm not your therapist anymore."

"_Isabel_," he began again, grateful for the new lack of formality, "you're the one person I've been able to tell what's going on. How could I not grant you one favor? What is it?"

"I'd really like to fly," she said, then added, "If you don't mind. I know it's kind of ridiculous, but you don't meet a man who can do that every day."

"And I," Nathan said, "have never met anyone like you. Let's go to the roof."

**A.N. **So there you go. I hope you like it; I'm not sure if I do as much as the other chapters. **Please review** with comments, criticism, praise, suggestions, whatever. I really will try to update a few light years sooner.


	15. One Small Step for Man

**A.N. **Hi guys! I'm so sorry this took so long _again_. Ugh. I'm really irritating myself. I'm really going to try to get back to my old updating speed. Anyways, hope you like this chapter. It's a lot more meaty and significant than the last one, and hopefully back up to par. **Please review** with comments, criticism, suggestions, praise, whatever. I hope you enjoy the chapter!

**Disclaimer: **No pueda hacer nada. The quote is from _Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_.

Chapter 15: One Small Step for Man

_"__'I incline to Cain's heresy,' he used to say quaintly: 'I let my brother go to the devil in his own way.'"_

Manhattan, New York City, New York

Peter reluctantly followed Bridget down the hallway to her apartment. "Are you sure this can't wait until later?"

"You go undercover _tomorrow_," Bridget said. She started rummaging through her bag for her key. It turned out to be hidden between gum wrappers. "I promise, this is important."

"Important enough for almost midnight?" Peter countered skeptically. Not that he didn't trust her, but last time they had talked she had gone on about this new computer program, and he had a bad feeling that it was important enough for a late night "emergency" phone call.

Bridget paused before turning the key. She turned to face him, sloppy ponytail swinging over her shoulder. "Peter. Do you like your job?"

He shrugged. "The hours aren't great, but the important thing is that it helps people."

"But you hate it, and you can't get your paramedic job back."

"Yeah."

"Do you want to be..." she looked at her shoes, like maybe the laces contained a code that would tell her what to say. "Do you want to be something more than just you?"

Peter chuckled. "You're talking about being a hero? What do you think, Bridget?"

She smiled, and finished unlocking the door. "Good."

A small Japanese man was waiting for them beside the couch. "Hello, Peter."

"_Hiro_? What are you doing here?" Peter almost wanted to add, _Is it really you? _The Hiro Nakamura he knew was full of energy, and often hard to take seriously. This man standing in his living room looked more mature, more like someone getting the job done rather than chasing destiny. He didn't give the impression that he could be taken out with one hit, in part because he wasn't wearing his thick-rimmed glasses.

"Rebel has chosen to trust you," Hiro said, stepping forward and placing hands on Bridget's and Peter's shoulders. The next second, they were gone.

South Barre, Vermont

Everyone was waiting for Peter in the meeting room of Liberation HQ. Bridget nervously watched his expression as he saw the group. She really did believe that Peter could work well with the team help them defeat Outlook, but she found herself second guessing her decision to recommend him to Rebel. Would he really be able to keep their secret? Would he be able to lie to the Company when it included members of his own family?

"Hello, Peter," greeted Mohinder.

Peter still looked somewhat taken aback. "All you guys? Hiro, Ando, Mohinder, _Claude_?"

"Your government pushed me out of hiding," Claude said.

"Excuses," muttered Monica. West chuckled.

Micah stepped forward. "I'm Micah Sanders," he said, shaking Peter's hand, "but you already know me as Rebel."

Peter looked impressed. "You're Rebel, huh? People in the Company think you can talk to machines."

" I'm a technopath," Micah said. "And this is Liberation, our team. You already know some of them."

"Yeah, long time no see."

"I'm Monica Dawson," said Monica, also stepping forward to shake Peter's hand.

"Monica is a muscle mimic. She can perfectly replicate any physical action she sees," Mohinder explained.

Peter nodded. "That's a good one."

Everyone looked at West. "I'm West Rosen," he said. "I can fly."

"No explanation required," Claude said.

"And you guys want me to- what? Spy on the Company for you?" Peter asked. "I think you could do that just fine by yourselves with all the abilities you have."

"Your mission for the Company is to get inside Outlook," said Hiro, speaking up for the first time. "We want you to be aware that we are on your side."

"The Company won't be able to take down Outlook, even with the information we gave them. Even if they get the government to step in, they'll be able to defend themselves. They're based too close to civilians for the military to step in, and special ops - well, the Company _is _their special ops for this kind of thing," Micah said. "But we may be able to use the Outlook chain of command to get to them. We can't get to the information about their leader, but we know he's highly respected, and his word is basically law."

"We think it's because he's the most powerful," said Ando.

"Right. And if we can either change his mind or undermine the people's faith in him, the whole organization would fall apart," Micah concluded.

Peter looked skeptical. "And you think _I _can do that?"

"With our help," West replied. "Just go ahead with what the Company wants you to do and we'll be your backup."

"There'll be someone monitoring you from here at headquarters while I'm keeping an eye on you from my apartment," Bridget added.

"That's it?" Peter asked. "No catch, no conditions?"

"You must keep your alliance with us a secret," Hiro said.

"Some of us trust the Company less than others," Claude said.

"I can understand that," Peter said. "Okay."

"'Okay', you're on the team?" Bridget said, trying not to be too excited about it.

Monica nodded. "He's on the team."

Washington, D.C.

"And how long do you think that's going to last?" Nathan asked.

"I don't know, dear," his mother replied. "It's an undercover mission, so at least a couple of months."

"Alright. Thanks, Ma." He hung up the phone and leaned back in his office chair. After leaving several messages on Peter's answering machine, he called his mother to ask when Peter would be coming to see her and Noah about his 'mission.' Not only had Angela Petrelli said that Peter couldn't see anyone until the mission was over, but he also couldn't answer his phone or check his email because of the risk that he could blow his cover.

That all made sense, but that didn't mean Nathan had to be happy about it. Now that Sylar was locked up for good, Nathan finally had enough peace of mind to really fix things with his brother. It was the only cog left out of place in his life, and it was one of the most important. And now the repair had to be put off for 'at least a couple of months.'

Nathan sighed and returned to the memo he was supposed to be reading. Other senators (and even the president, he had heard) had started to think less of him during the past few stressful months, and he needed to get their confidence back. Starting by catching up on his paperwork.

A post-it note near the phone caught his eye. It looked like it was covered in absent-minded shapes doodled during his phone call - but while doodling was a common habit, Nathan had never had been one to do so. He definitely hadn't thought he was doing anything while talking to his mother.

A wave of suspicion came over him, and he examined the post-it. It was only lines and shapes, and Nathan felt relieved. Just because he didn't remember it didn't mean it was something sinister. He needed to get readjusted to life without an internal enemy.

_Turn it over_, whisper a small, cautious voice in the back of his brain.

He did.

#7E, 367 SOUTHERN BLVD  
BRONX, NY 10454

Without thinking, Nathan tore up the post-it note and threw the pieces in the trash.

_I don't want to know_, he thought. _I don't want to know. I don't want to know._

Of course, he was lying.


End file.
